


A Walk through Rivellon

by Nitheliniel



Category: Divinity: Original Sin 2
Genre: Developing Friendships, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Healthy Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-02-07 14:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 28,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12843270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nitheliniel/pseuds/Nitheliniel
Summary: This compilation follows my playthrough of "Divinity: Original Sin 2" with Ifan, Sebille, Lohse, and Fane. While the individual parts are based on the events of and quests within the game, they are also my personal interpretation of those events, characters, and relationships. The chapters here do not necessarily follow the order of events in the game.Spoilers possible.And of course, feel free to comment!Note: I am working on the sequel. There will be one. Bear with me. :-)





	1. Life in a Pack (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Reaper's Coast - Following the fight against Roost Anlon and his Lone Wolfs at the abandoned saw-mill, saving the elven seer, Saheila.  
> This is Part 1 of 3:  
> Part 2 (Chapter 2): "Demands"  
> Part 3 (Chapter 3) "Of Trees and Hearts"

Killing Roost, his bodyguards, and the two large wolfs had certainly not bettered their prospects with the rest of the Lone Wolfs. Their escape from the mercenaries’ camp at the saw mill had been narrow and taking the blind Elvish seer with them hampered their progress severely. They were followed and the pursuers were gaining. Ifan was about to propose to hide somewhere and, if necessary, make a stand, but Sebille beat him.

“I’ll buy you time!” she whispered into his ear, before vanishing into the deepening shadows, and way before any of the group members was able to react. Ifan was not certain, whether Fane, leading their way, even realised the Elf had gone. Not, at least, until they all heard her shouting at the Lone Wolfs.

“I killed Roost Anlon! – Pierced his hand, pierced his heart, devoured his soul.”

“What does she think she is doing?” Lohse, supporting Saheila, turned her head to glance at Ifan incredulously.

“So, tell me, little pups, what are you going to do about the cat that killed a wolf?” How fast had she been running? Between her first shouted words and this following tempting, Sebille seemed to have crossed unbelievable distances.

Ifan shrugged at Lohse`s rhetorical question, cocking his head to listen to the footsteps following them. They had stopped shortly, before indeed breaking into two groups. Angry shouts and snarls moving after Sebille. The group of followers still on their tracks had become considerable smaller.

“Seems to be working though,” he grunted between angrily clenched teeth. “Let’s go. It should not be far and the Elves can deal with those that are still on our heels.”

To fasten their progress he slid his hand under Saheila’s free arm and between Lohse and him they almost carried her down the sandy path, following the soft light radiating from Fanes fingers. Undead, it appeared, could not “see” very well in the dark.

He was sure they had entered the territory of Saheila’s tribe, when the blind woman confirmed his guess by shouting out to invisible sentries. He did not stop to wonder, how exactly she had sensed them. The seer was a conundrum anyway.

“Let us pass! Secure the path!”

There was no discernible answer, but Ifan had lived with the Elves long enough to know that they were save – their retreat covered by infallible archers. They slowed down a bit, all of them being worn and out of breath. Well, almost all of them. Still, Fane adjusted his step to the three others. Eventually, he turned his head, looking at the group following him.

“Why doesn’t he say a thing?” Lohse seemed as puzzled at the Undead’s unusual lack of overly clever comments as Ifan felt himself. But the question must have triggered Fane to put his thought into words. “These mercenaries showed surprisingly irrational behaviour for skilled soldiers. They should have been able to overcome their feelings and follow us, instead of falling for such a blunt bait. Ifan, are you certain the Lone Wolfs are the highly trained fighters you always made us believe?”

Ifan was saved an answer by the sound of fighting commencing in their backs. The shouts of their pursuers who had gotten into the range of the Elvish bows was answered by complete silence from the Elven sentries. They heard several cries of pain, followed by a hasty order to retreat. He allowed himself to relax a little. The uphill bend of the path finally brought the camp in sight, a fire alighting the empty clearing. Only when a shout from behind them gave the all-clear, did the elves appear from the shadows of the trees. Saheila’s mother, Tovar, was moving towards them with wide spread arms and tears of joy in her eyes.

—

They had been thanked, they had even been embraced, and their injuries had been seen to – Fane clearly not happy that the Elven healer had dared to cross into his territory, but relenting eventually when it became clear that the woman’s greater experience with wolf bites increased Lohse’s chances of not catching a fever. He had not said so, of course, but instead busied himself with Ifan’s scratches from the fight, before mending his own battered ribcage - a small bottle filled with green liquid at the ready to counter the negative effects of hydrosophical healing on his undead body. The sight of a broken rib sliding back into place only guided by blue light was an intriguing one indeed.

Now they sat next to the fire, food and warm drinks in their hands, but the spirits remained subdued. Saheila had recounted her story, from fleeing Fort Joy to being captured by the Lone Wolfs. And Lohse had, after being repeatedly asked by the grateful elves, given in to tell the tale of their fight against Roost and his band. Fane had helped her story along by correcting her whenever he felt she was taking too much poetic liberty. Ifan had remained silent. He was staring ahead into the fire, clenching his teeth. His grip around his cup had hardened so much, his knuckles had turned white. He did not even notice, that Lohse had come to an end, before she addressed him.

“Chief, we are all worried!” She pried the cup from his hands before it could break and clearly wanted to say something else, when he only shook his hand. She meant well, he knew. He would have liked to let her words sooth him, but found it impossible to find words for her in return that would not be tainted by concern, the feeling of not being able to do anything, and the rising anger because of both. He abruptly got up and took to pacing the camp’s entrance.

—

A while later, Saheila’s soft coaxing had finally made him sit with the fire again. “She will return,” the seer hat said with conviction. “Destiny will not let anything happen to her. She still has to fulfil hers.” Ifan had wondered at the strange words, but his lack of concentration made it hard to make any sense of them.

They were all tired. Lohse’s eyes were getting darker by the minute and Fane had stopped his half-hearted discussion with Tovar and Saheila about Elven lore. Still, none of them felt like sleeping. Feeling so utterly useless gnawed at him. The other two were clearly as worried, but dealing better. A sudden astonished shout and feet hurrying to the entrance, broke his pondering. Raising his head his eyes took some while adjusting to the dark beyond the fire before he became aware of the darker shadow among shadows. Sebille’s face, pale as the moon, was the only part of her clearly distinguishable from the background.

Her usually lithe movements were slow and gingerly, so that Ifan had crossed the distance between them before she had really gotten into the camp. The elves, though closer to her, shrank from the vehemence of his approach and Sebille stopped dead in her track, when she saw him approach. Half a smile appeared on her lips and her eyes gave away the depth of her relief. Both slipped of her face, when Ifan took her by the arms, shaking her in hardly restrained anger, fuming.

“Why did you do that?” he found himself shouting, unable to restrain his voice. “Why did you run of like this? It was foolish, dangerous, it could not have worked!”

“I …, but …,” she stuttered. Clearly she had not expected this attack.

“What?!”

“…wanted you to be safe,” Sebille finished defensively. Unsuccessfully, she tried to shrug his hands of her arms. Ifan’s grip only hardened.

“We are a group, Sebille! It is not just you on your own against all the world. We are in this together. We are responsible for each other. It’s what you do among friends! Stop doing things alone! Start trusting us!”

She could not have looked more hurt, had he hit her. Anger now also kindled in her amber eyes.

“I was helping you!” she hissed back. “You made it back in one peace because of me. You are import…” Again she was not able to finish her sentence.

“Damn it! You are important too, Sebille! To them!” Ifan gestured vaguely at the silently watching elves.

“To us!” This time his hand included Lohse and Fane, who had come close, but dared not to interfere.

“To ME!” Both hands gripped her slender arms again. He stared at her wildly before blushing deeply when the realisation hit him just how much of the true source of his anger he had revealed to the world. Abruptly, he let go of her. Sebille blinked at him in surprise.

“I…”

Ifan turned on his heels and stormed off into the darkness.

“… am sorry, Ifan!” But those words he did no longer hear.


	2. Demands (Life in a Pack, Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Part 2 of 3:
> 
> Part 1 (Chapter 1) "Life in a Pack"  
> Part 3 (Chapter 3) "Of Trees and Hearts"

Had they not saved Saheila from the grip of the Lone Wolfs? Were no the elves blissfully happy? Had they not only stayed alive but were also, at least for the moment, save and sound? Lohse could not help the feeling that the past day and its actions had largely been very successful. Why then had the night taken this awkward turn?

Sebille still stood plastered to the place where Ifan hat left her, rigid and unmoving, her arms protectively wrapped around her body. She was biting her lower lip and when her eyes met Lohse’s she looked at her imploringly. Lohse’s heart reached out to her in her apparent loneliness.

“Come!” She stretched out her right hand, grasping the other woman’s elbow. “Sit with us, Sebille! Are you well? What happened to you after you left us?”

But when she started to lead Sebille towards the fire, Saheila interfered. The seers words, as usual, soft spoken but firm.

“Sebille, it is important we speak!”

Lohse felt the tension that had only just started to recede return into Sebille’s body. Irritation rose within her. – Hardly a feeling she appreciated, as irritation strengthened the lodger. Someone was chuckling in her head at this thought.

“It is also important, that she rests,” Lohse snapped rather uncharacteristically. Ifan had had it right. They were a group, a team, a pack. They looked after each other. She felt shaken by the sudden rift that had opened between Ifan and Sebille, although it had not been hard to guess at its cause. With Ifan gone, Lohse felt responsible for keeping things together.

“Sebille, please! Tomorrow you may want to leave. Today we must speak,” Saheila insisted, touching Sebille’s other arm and the elf yielded. She send Lohse a half-hearted but grateful smile before letting herself being led away by Saheila towards the place were her mother was seated at the rim of the camp.

“I do not like this!” Lohse exclaimed, in lack of a better option, looking at Fane for help. The undead did not give away much of what he might be thinking, but to Lohse’s surprise he bowed his head in agreement.

“I agree. How did you put it so profanely but aptly in Driftwood? There is something fishy about this.”

Lohse gaped at him.

“Fane, was that… a joke?”

Besides her concerns she could not help a grin spreading over her face as the undead, lacking mimic ways of expression, shrugged.

“We will keep your eyes on the situation,” he continued, leaving Lohse behind speechless when he turned to find a place to sit closer to where the elves were talking, while still maintaining enough distance to not appear obtrusive.

After a moment, Lohse joined him, but it took a while before the two found back into their own conversation. Fane was studying his notebook intently, turning pages back and forth, stopping here and there to read a passage. Lohse suspected his thoughts were frowning as he seemed unsatisfied with his findings. Finally, he let the book sink in exasperation and turned to the singer.

“I lack information,” he conceded.

“On what?” She was intrigued.

“Human interaction. Or, more precisely, human-elvish interaction. My notes are not sufficient and I cannot recall that any of the books I read in the past had the issue of inter-racial relationships.”

Lohse’s eyes widened, then she chuckled.

“Are you referring to what was passing between Sebille and Ifan?”

Fane nodded, seeming embarrassed.

“I think you might want to consult books on relationships in general. This has nothing to do with humans and elves. - Or, …” At this point she laughed. “… you could just ask me. No-one better than a bard to unravel the mysteries of courtship and love.”

“Or shroud them even more,” Fane commented sarcastically. But he was listening, and Lohse, appreciating the opportunity to shift her focus away from Saheila and Sebille, who sat cross-legged facing each other, did her best to inform Fane on the subtleties of love between those who still had flesh on their bones and a beating heart. She was not sure, whether her elaborate tales satisfied the scholar at all or whether he was only trying to be polite – something that Lohse and Ifan had recommended he should try from time to time whenever he felt that blunt honesty and a display of superior knowledge could be mistaken for arrogance by those of inferior intellect. It had made living with Fane so much easier, especially since practice seemed to be giving him the knack of it. She ended with the only just beginning tale of Sebille and Ifan, telling him about the almost-kiss in Effie’s Emporium that Ifan had not been able to keep a secret, when she had prodded him the next day about why Sebille was acting so weird – staring into nothingness for minutes on end before bustling about aimlessly.

“I assume, they did not yet take the time to talk this through,” she analysed the current situation.

“Or find it,” Fane concluded. He was right, they had been rather busy emptying the landscape of Reaper’s Coast of basically who- or whatever crossed their pass and did not get out of the way in time.

“So what you are saying is, that while they are both aware that they care for the other they are unable to act on it because the convention of romantic love amongst the living has it that they need to drift apart before they can finally admit their feelings? Tell me, with your experience as a bard, are your tales and songs build upon the analysation of tangible examples, or have they become the reality so that lovers cannot move outside their borders?” He had taken up his notebook again, pen at the ready, and seemed so excited at the prospect of learning something new, that it pained Lohse to admit that she had not yet thought about the connection of love and lore in such a philosophical way.

“I will, though,” she promised, taking a mental note.

It was only when they fell silent that they noticed that the conversation among the elves had increased in volume – single words and sometimes even bits and pieces of sentences floating over to where they were sitting. The discussion, though not yet heated, had apparently grown in intensity. Lohse frowned, Fane turned his head, both struggling to decipher what was going on. Saheila was still maintaining close contact with Sebille, while Sebille was clearly trying to regain her personal space: the seers face looking intent, Sebille’s defiant turning towards angry.

“I… was forced to,” they heard Sebille counter a charge by the blind seer, whose hand now rested on Sebille’s scarred cheek. Saheila answered, talking about fear and faults, concluding that “If all elves die, the fault is yours!”

Lohse wanted to protest, to run over, pull Sebille away, and to scream at Saheila to mind her own business. But that was probably what the seer was doing: Minding the elves’ business. So she remained seated, though on the ready. She felt more then saw Fane getting up on his heels next to her and she fervently wished that Ifan would return, with his greater knowledge about elvish history, to explain to them what was going on.

Sebille had stopped struggling. Instead she looked compelled into Saheila’s murky white eyes, her own self no longer present but lost somewhere far away. She kept talking, though, and Lohse and Fane kept listening closely, no longer keeping up appearance.

“… death and domination…” Sebille told the seer and her mother. “I hated…, fled from her!”

“We demand… heart!”Saheila implored.

At that, Sebille was finally able to pull away. She removed Saheila’s hand from her face and struggled to her feet. Her next words, shaking, but decisive, carried all the way to Lohse and Fane.

“The Mother, the Master… We’ll see. It is not a decision for today.”

She had already made some halting steps towards her friends, when Tovah started to assist Saheila in her plea. By now, Lohse had gotten to her feet as well, Fane at her side. They reached Sebille when the elf turned around one more time. Since their own movement had made them miss Tovah’s words, Sebille’s poisenous answer did not make much sense to them.

“To be the heart, or to be heartless, is that it? I wouldn’t count your chickens just yet…”

And that was when Sebille’s own anger finally failed to keep her on her feet. Under her touch, Lohse felt the last of her friend’s strength and resolve drain away, felt her stumble, faint, and sink to the ground. She caught her just in time, sinking on her knees with her, softly securing Sebille’s head before lowering her into the grass. She realised how Ifan must have been feeling before, when concern and anger made her want to leash out at the elves. At Saheila’s and Tovah’s concerned questions, she just glared at them with black, darkly ringed eyes, stopping them immediately from coming any closer.

“We will take it from here!” Fane told them icily, ignoring their protest.

Fane and Lohse did not have to speak with each other to agree on their course of action. They bedded Sebille in her bedroll, Lohse spread hers next to her, Fane seating himself on the other side of her. He quickly checked her for injuries, only mumbling to himself how she had managed to run so far with a sprained ankle. When he was satisfied that nothing was severely wrong, Lohse lay down as well, drawing close to Sebille and wrapping an arm protectively around her waist.

“We’ve got you!” she mumbled reassuringly, weariness finally overwhelming her too. Her last thought went out to Ifan. “Come back, chief! We need you here!”


	3. Of Trees and Hearts (Life in a Pack, Part 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is part 3 of 3:
> 
> Part 1 (Chapter 1): "Life in a Pack"  
> Part 2 (Chapter 2): "Demands"

She woke from something heavy hindering her from moving freely into her accustomed sleeping position. Sebille rarely slept on her back, feeling vulnerable with all her vital organs exposed to the night sky and to whoever meant ill, so usually she curled into a tight ball, knees almost up to her breast, one hand supporting her head, the other protectively in front of her face. The position also facilitated getting up in a hurry – just in case. Thus, the first impression after waking was that of rising fear and her muscles had intuitively tensed for bolting before she realised that what was holding her down was Lohse’s arm. Sebille closed her eyes, counting to ten, before she made a more measured attempt to come to terms with reality. Unfortunately, things did not really get better when the memory of her discussion with Saheila returned. Also, she could not remember how it had ended, or, as a matter of fact, how she had made it into her bedroll. She whispered a curse.

“So, you are feeling better?”

Ifan’s low, dark voice made her open her eyes and twist her head, so she could see him. His words sounded bitter and still a bit reproachful, but there was something else too, which she recognised as real concern, when she finally beheld him watching her.

“Better?”

Anger crept back into his eyes. “You fainted right into Lohse’s arms. Fane told me upon my return. Don’t you remember?”

No, she did not. She turned her eyes to Lohse, snoring softly next to her, than to Fane, who sat leaning against a tree, sleeping, resting, or meditating – whatever he was doing at nights. He had never felt compelled to share this secret with them. A warm feeling of gratitude washed over her and gently she brushed a lock of red hair from Lohse’s face, before she wriggled out of the other woman’s embrace and carefully got up. Her body felt stiff and bruised and there was the hint of pain in her left ankle. Fane was a masterly healer, just not very compassionate.

Her head spun, too, but Sebille ignored it, centring all her awareness on the man in front of her, noticing his hunched shoulders, his fidgeting hands, and his restless gaze. That she could see it all, that his body betrayed his anger, his anxiety, and his weariness, told her more than words ever could, how close he was to losing the rest of his usual composure. He must have felt it too, because he took a deep breath and set himself upright, before addressing her again.

“I think, we should talk. Will the Queen of the World grant me an audience?”

The hint of a smile in his words made her relax a little.

“Yes, of course, my Knight of the Needle. But not here. Let me just leave a note.”

Ifan waited impatiently, while she rummaged in her pack for writing material. She slipped the note into Fane’s lap, than followed Ifan’s lead away from the elven camp. He did not go far. The shimmer of the fire, which was kept burning by the elves during the night, still crept through the trees to where they were standing. Sebille was raking her brains as to how to begin. So much had happened to her tonight, but most of all, too much had happened between them during the last few weeks. Ifan shifted from one foot to the other, his gaze all the time resting upon her that finally she felt so uncomfortable she tried to turn away from him. One quick step brought him close to her, his warm, calloused hand grapping hers, cold as ice.

“Tell me,” he ordered softly, pulling her in a hug.

“Saheila – she returned my memories to me. From the time before the Master.” Her voice was only a whisper in his ear, her eyes gazing passed his head into the distance. She could smell him now – furs and leather, wood and earth, sweat and blood. She drew a deep breath, taking it all in, resisting the urge to stick out her tongue and taste him too.

“And that is a bad thing?”

How should she even begin?

It helped that Ifan, having been raised by elves, did not have to ask questions. Sebille only felt his grip tighten around her, before he broke away in order to be able to look at her while she was recounting her dispute with Saheila and Tovah over her past as Prime Scion, her flight and how it had hurt her people, and finally her renewed role in the future of elvenkind.

“I must have seen you back then,” Ifan exclaimed, when finally she had come to an end. “During the Spring Ceremonies when all the Scions are crowned with – were crowned…” He faltered, lines furrowing his forehead, bad memories clouding his eyes. “Well, all of that has ended.”

Sebille remembered the slender windflower wreath on her head, the other Scions, similarly adorned, next to her, the masses of people looking up to them reverently. The wreath had weighed tons with responsibility.

“Yes, it has ended, because I assassinated the other Scions.” Unconsciously, she rubbed her right arm. The arm with the names of the people she had killed. “It comes down to Saheila and me now and if I do not consent to take up the path I left so long ago, I will be in Saheila’s way to become Prime Scion. – I ran from it all, as far as I could. I ran from it, was taken prisoner, was made a slave, escaped slavery, became a prisoner again, was send on a suicide mission to ascend to divinity, and now, here I am again, cornered. I cannot run this time. I cannot let them get hurt – or let them hurt you!” She stopped, realising that her voice had become panicky and was beginning to crack.

“Fate must be laughing so hard right now!” she complained, cynism marking her despair.

“You also met me.” Ifan’s words, completing her list, brought her back to where she was standing: close enough to him, that she could feel the warmth of his body caressing her skin. How could he be so real, so alive, when she felt so dead?

“Yes,” she hung her head, unable to look him into the eyes. “And it makes this an impossible decision.” She felt him stiffen, but could not guess at the cause. “How can I become the Mother, or the next Divine, for that matter, when all I… when I want …” She looked up and instinctively took a step back at the intensity of his gaze, hope emerging in his green eyes despite his apparent struggle for caution. She swallowed, suddenly feeling embarrassment of a very different kind.

“I … I know, this is hardly the best time, but I have been meaning to bring up what almost happened between us in the Undertavern …” She stopped, noticing him freezing, then tried again: “And I wanted to ask … I believe, you promised …” She was put off again, when he started to blush deeply. Still, he made no move to help her out of her predicament. “Ah, for the love of the gods, Ifan, before my lips turn to bark, may I kiss you?”

She was not sure, whether the gods indeed loved them, or rather, she was sure they did not. But when Ifan closed the gap between them, his hands cupping her cheeks, pulling her face down for the kiss he had promised, when she could finally feel, smell, and taste him, she had no longer any doubts about his feelings towards her or of hers for him.

—

The next day - on the way back to Driftwood:

“By the way, did you think this was reassuring?” Lohse had pulled a parchment note from her pocket, waving it in front of Sebille’s eyes. Though the letters were blurring with the movement, the elf knew what it said.

“Ifan and I are talking. Back soon. Do not worry.”

She shrugged, not understanding.

“What did you write this with? Your blood?”

Sebille took off her glove, showing Lohse the small stitch of her needle, were she had pricked her finger.

“I didn’t have a quill, or ink for that matter,” she explained matter-of-factly.

Lohse simply stared at her.

“And people call me a freak!”


	4. Burning Plains

The fight had commenced in what had become their usual array: Fane and him perched on whatever high places they could find, Sebille flicking around the battle’s edges, and Lohse standing right in the middle of things. This time, the high place had turned out to be the wooden platform on which the magisters had decided to hang Hannag’s apprentice, Gwydian. Altogether this did not prove as the best of options considering that their original fight with the magisters had called forth wave upon wave of slick, oily, and highly combustive voidwokens. The drilling field had soon turned into hell itself. Ifan was covering Fane who was busy drenching the ground with whatever magical fluid he could conjure and keeping up the thin magical armour that prevented Lohse and Sebille from turning into ashes.

Below them, the two women had found into what Ifan had come to consider as the most graceful of dances. He would never stop to wonder as to how Lohse was able to deflect blows from foes much larger and stronger than her with the ease of a professional matador. Her style of fighting gave the impression that her attackers skewered themselves on her sword deliberately. And who knew? – With a bard capable of having people on each other’s throat by singing to them, maybe that was exactly what was happing.

And Sebille? Sebille was something different entirely. Almost blinded by the fire, the immense heat, and the thick smoke rising towards them, he was barely able to see further than a few steps. For some while now he had to be content with keeping the wizard and himself safe. But every now and then a slender shadow danced through his peripheral vision, a dark silhouette blending into the clouds of smoke, and then it was gone again, leaving behind someone or something maimed, crippled, or dead.

Most of the voidwokens had been killed, leaving only a few severely scorched magisters behind. Beneath them a robed man and woman were in slow retreat – from the fire eating its way up the wooden beams as well as from the two women following steadily. Lohse looked to all the world like a demon sprung from the flames, all fiery hair and burning black eyes. Next to her, Sebille had become a creature of billowing smoke, absorbing the light surrounding her. The group’s process was slow and guarded, the magisters backing away, Lohse and Sebille keeping the distance constant, sword and daggers at the ready. Another curtain of smoke veiled the scene and all Fane and Ifan could hear were frightened shouts, the clang of metal upon metal, choking sounds and finally Sebille’s triumphant laughter.

„I love that laugh!“ Ifan exclaimed, his eyes illuminated by the ocean of fire surrounding them and the emotional fire burning within him.

“Your adoration for a laugh that signifies the death of a person or creature indicates an interesting though severe mental condition.” Fane managed to look both intrigued as well as worried while being in the middle of a fight. Ifan watched him spread his bony fingers towards the white magister, who had somehow managed to survive the volleys of voidwokens, as if begging him not to attack. Dark purple light pulsated between his fingertips, growing stronger but curiously also more and more opaque. Ifan could feel the low hum emanating from that light resonating in his own body before it rose to a high pitch, at which point Fane cast it at the unfortunate magister. The man fell to the ground writhing, screaming at the top of his voice, covered in a swarm of purple specks of light. Then a hazy cloud of bloody vapour erupted from his skin, draining the life from his body while at the end of the process, Fane looked as vital as a skeleton possibly could.

“And that you can do that and it is your favourite trick, does not?” he retorted. He could not be sure, of course, but he would have bet the undead was smirking at him.

Since this seemed to have been the last of their enemies – be they magisters or voidwokens – Fane and Ifan set themselves to blessing the patches of fire which did not yield to normal methods of quenching. It was hot and dirty and altogether miserable work, especially since the fumes that billowed towards them smelled acrid and were certainly not very wholesome. Unfortunately, they had also not succeeded in saving Gwydian.

They had been at it a while and he was starting to get very worried, when Lohse’s crown of red hair finally appeared from below. Sebille did not even bother to wait, until Lohse had cleared the ladder, but simply jumped up, landing gracefully between the last glowing embers.

“What took you so long?” A quick but nonetheless thorough glance assured Ifan, that none of the women was severely hurt. He allowed himself a deep breath to quieten the nagging concern.

“Don’t be angry, Chief! We had such a great party!” Lohse gestured vaguely at the burning plains behind her. Somewhere something exploded noisily. She grinned and added: “With fireworks!”

“We did our hair,” Sebille chimed in, shaking her head so that the last sparks flew out of her singed pony tail.

“And painted our faces,” Lohse added, drawing a soot-covered finger over Sebille’s cheek. The conversation ended with both women struggling to paint the most decorative shapes on the other’s face. Staring at them, Ifan could not help to feel rather old.


	5. Misfit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting: shortly after the party’s first arrival in Driftwood

The picks rattled slightly as Sebille asserted tentative pressure. She tried to turn them into the right directions and angles to open the massive door that, presumably, would lead to a courtyard outside the stronghold. They had sneaked, climbed, and fought their way up from the level of the dungeons and even her sense of direction had suffered a little in the long corridors without daylight. She almost had it, but then one pick slipped. She cursed under her breath, suppressing mounting irritation.

The cause for her lack of concentration continued breathing down her neck. He huffed at her latest blunder.

„One could expect a thief to handle her tools more ably. Since you insist on your immoral behaviour, at least be successful.“

Sebille closed her eyes, counting to ten.

“Go, find the key then. Do something useful,” she muttered, before starting on a new attempt.

She was rewarded with a short span of indignant silence. It lasted not nearly long enough.

“I will not be ordered around by a sl… the likes of you!”

Sh…, he had heard her. Lizards had rather sharp hearing considering that they did not have ears worth calling. At his words, her fingers convulsed around her picks. With a sharp twang, one of them broke, causing the Red Prince to once more make his contempt audible. Sebille bit her lip sharply, drawing blood, but remained in her crouching position in front of the door, while the lizard towered over her.

“Go on then, break it down. Throw yourself against it, burn it to the ground, or, preferably, batter it in with your head. - And don‘t ever, ever again call me a slave!”

Her voice had turned from merely annoyed to a dangerous hiss.

“Ah, I was wondering whether that still touches you. You see, your incapability to open this simple door supports the severe doubts I have always been having about your story.“

Sebille felt her blood freeze. What a stupid moment to have this conversation.

“You are on very slippery ground, lizard,” she warned, very unsuccessfully.

“Even if I believed the House of Shadows to exist, which, I must repeat, I do not, why exactly should its presumed Head have such an incapable slave?“

“Remember, Sebille, no fight! There are more important things at stake, so keep…” Sebille failed as miserably to calm herself, as she had failed to shush the Red Prince, or open the blasted door. She looked around for Fane and Ifan, but none of them were close. Since they had cleared this landing of magisters and since she had volunteered to open the door, Fane and Ifan were searching the adjacent rooms for anything useful or valuable.

“You know, it has probably been your disregard for reality that has cost you your throne,” she jabbed – verbally, at least for the moment – but hardly able to restrain herself. Apparently, the Red Prince had similar problems. She felt a strong claw grip her shoulder and whirl her around. He had bowed towards her, staring at her menacingly. She could feel his hot breath on her face and grimaced.

“You! You are not even worth to…” He was cut short by the sharp point of Sebille’s dagger, digging into a very private region of his body.

“One more word and I will turn you from a ‘want-to-be-king’ into a ‘once-upon-a-time-prince’!”

He did not release her, as she had expected. Instead he side-stepped away from her dagger and used his greater reach to simply flung her aside. With a furious shriek, she skidded a few steps down the corridor before she was stopped by the balustrade surrounding the great staircase. With one smooth movement, she pushed herself off one of the stone pillars and threw herself at the lizard, only brushing his right shoulder, then slipping one foot behind his legs, pulling them from under him. He answered her shriek with a deafening roar, lashing at her with his tail, bringing her down next to him. What had started as a not-so-friendly banter quickly deteriorated into a fight in earnest. She would no longer have this red freak of nature belittle her, doubt her, or disregard her. He would accept her, or learn to fear her. Also, he could just simply die with her needle embedded in his jugular. - She did no longer care!

Strong hands grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her off the lizards body. She struggled in vain against the embrace that pinned her arms to her body, kicking and screaming. She was dragged across the corridor, away from the fight. At the same time, her opponent was lifted clear off the ground, hitting the floor with a dull thud at the bottom of the grand staircase.

“Let me go!” Sebille spat. “And I will end his bloody line!”

But Ifan had held her only tighter, waiting for her to tire herself out, while Fane had stood on the top of the stairs, daring the Red Prince to make a move.

—

“Sebille? Sebille! Are you still with me?” Lohse, prodding her arm, brought her back into the here and now.

“Hm?”

“Will you answer my question, or not?”

They were sitting at a table in the “Black Bull Tavern”, just across from the bard trying his best to amuse the customers with verses so bad, Lohse cringed whenever he violated a rhyme. Sebille raised an eyebrow, trying to remember the original question. Oh, oh yes…

“Whether I could tell you why we decided to ask you to come along instead of keeping up with the Red Prince?”

Those had not been Lohse’s exact words, who had phrased her question in a more neutral way. The other woman still nodded.

“It did not exactly work out so well between us,” Sebille euphemised with a crooked smile. She really should be feeling some remorse, she thought, considering that she was still among the living while the Red Prince had died on the Lady Vengeance. She did not, however. Might his realm sink into oblivion. “I am glad you are here! - And really, the question should rather be, why I am still part of the group, instead of His Majesty,” she mused.

It was Lohse’s turn to raise an eyebrow. She cast a quick glance at Sebille, just to make sure the elf was not joking, then turned to find Ifan leaning against the counter, in an animated discussion with the owner. Something about her son… He was not really into the conversation but kept looking back to where they were seated, an absent-minded smile on his lips. When he felt himself caught by Lohse, his smile broadened self-consciously and he quickly turned away. The bard rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, beats me too.”

She was not going to meddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I quickly decided that the Red Prince and I also are incompatible and I assume we were both relieved when he left the party as early on in the game as Fort Joy


	6. Bad Luck (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Wrecker's Cave, fight against Mordus, ensuing events
> 
> This is part 1 of 3:  
> Part 2 (Chapter 7): Not so Gentle  
> Part 3 (Chapter 8): Awakening

“You really should have stayed in bed this morning!” she counselled, giving good advice too late knowingly. The possessed dwarf had been too intent on sneaking behind Ifan in order to notice Sebille, creeping up behind him in turn. She had closed the gap with one silent step when the man had lifted his bow, arrow knocked, giving her the opening she needed. Upon her words, the surprised dwarf started to swing around, freezing midway upon realising too late that his movement was driving her dagger home into his unprotected armpit. She wondered briefly whether his last thoughts before passing out might be taking a similar turn as her words, then she led him slip to the ground.

“Thank you!”

Ifan had backed towards her, keeping his eyes up front. His hands maintained their firm grip on his crossbow, but his voice reached out towards her, supporting the meaning of his words with feeling. She smiled at the back of his head, then reached out and briefly let her hand rest on his shoulder. She felt him shudder and struggle for concentration. Sebille was amused as well as frustrated. Ever since the Undertavern – and before, if she was being honest – there had been this strange tension between them. They were closer to but at the same time much more awkward with each other. They had not found the time to dissolve this issue. Neither of them seemed to have been looking for it either. Rather, they had both used their bad luck that made them chance upon fiend after fiend as an excuse not to talk. She was starting to wish they had not almost kissed.

“I will always have your back, wolf,” she promised, carefully trying to keep her voice free of her emotions, but not fully succeeding. She gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze, then left off.

“See you later!”

…

Sebille discovered the second mage only by chance. She had been looking for a proper vantage point from which to assess the to and fro of the battle and to decide, where or whom to attack next. One of the archers – and she could not rule out Ifan entirely, either – had loosened an unlucky burning bolt which had, for a moment, alighted the cave’s ceiling before sinking and finally hitting the poisonous puddle that had built on the ground around Mordus’ feet. While this had greatly improved their vision momentarily, the thick smoke now rising from the burning fluid had started to hide the fighters – Lohse, Mordus, and a sorcerer who had not been able to get out of the bard’s way in time. Sebille had shortly considered to just try her luck and run into the smoky screen, but she had quickly thought better of it. She did not want to get hit by a stray blow of whatever weapon, especially not since Lohse would just be as likely to hit her, as any other opponent. Also, her thin magical barrier had worn off some time ago. Running blindly into the flames thus did not seem the best of options.

In a quick succession of climbing and jumping she had gained higher ground on a wide stony pillar in the cave’s centre, about thirteen feet above ground. Catching her breath, she used the short break to ascertain the location of her other companions. Ifan she could only just discern standing on the wooden platform she had left him on, on the far side of the cave. As far as she could tell, he was doing just fine.

Fane’s location remained hidden, even from where she was standing. However, the giant bony spider that erupted from the ground with a menacing hiss and immediately vanished into fire and smoke, was a fair lead to his wellbeing.

Sebille started to run along the pillar’s edge, before deciding where to enter the fight again, when a flickering light caught her attention. She strained her eyes to pinpoint its exact origin and noticed how a few steps ahead a wooden scaffold extended ouwards from the pillar’s rocky top. The flicker had gone, but she was certain to have seen it. Goosebumps ran over her body. That was a hell of a spot to take them out one by one. Without a clear idea of what to do exactly, she rushed forwards.

When the first blast of magical power hit her, she realised this had not been one of her better ideas. The world around her turned from hazy to dark so that she could not even see the next spell flying from the sorceress’ hands. It stole the curse from her lips, leaving a ripping sensation in her throat. Her racing mind made her believe she could hear the woman’s thoughts: “Blind the archer! Mute the mage!” That was ridiculous, of course.

Instinct let her drop to her knees just in time. She could sense something searing over her head and when a drop of whatever the sorceress had thrown touched her skin, it burned. This had to end, quickly, before she was being used for any further target practice. Spurned by her own thoughts, Sebille propelled herself forwards, hoping the dwarf woman had been confident and foolish enough not to move. From the feel of it she hit her opponent right in the middle, throwing her off balance and tackling her to the ground. – Or so she thought. Unfortunately, there had not been much ground to begin with and their combined momentum brought them to the end of the scaffold and over its edge. Since she could not hold on to anything else, she held onto the dwarf. However, not able to judge the distance to the ground by sight, she missed the right time to jump free. Even though the impact was cushioned somewhat by the woman’s body beneath her, it still drove the air from her lungs. Sebille heard the sorceress groan, before she went limb beneath her hands, apparently losing consciousness.

Sebille struggled to find her bearings and to gain a sense of what was going on around her only by hearing. The cave played tricks with the sound, making interpreting the noise of the raging battle difficult. She heard Lohse cry out in rage to her right, claiming she would not yield to anything. Even within her current predicament, Sebille had to smile. Who would make such a ridiculous request? Lohse did not give the impression of yielding in her worst of times. Then a ripping sound took out all others, flesh being torn, something scraping noisily on the ground, screeching and clicking noises as from a bug that had grown out of proportion. She could make no sense of it, until she heard Fane call out in frustration.

“Did I not specifically tell you not to kill the minions? That the Ritual of Akaim would allow him to drain the source of the dead and turn into… this?!”

So, the archer she had practically plucked from Ifan’s back had died, providing the renegade dwarf, Mordus, with all he needed to complete his ritual. Bugger!

The clicking of far too many skeletal feed, passing so close to her she could feel the air on her cheeks, made her skin crawl. But the Bone Widow, as Fane called this newest pet of his almost lovingly, was fighting on their side. When she heard similar sounds approaching her the next time, Sebille thus did not react in time. She only just managed to draw one of her elvish daggers while trying to step out of the way, when the charge hit her. Her vision had still not cleared, so she let herself get carried along by what she could only suppose must be what Mordus had changed into. The beast’s proportions simply did not fit any mental picture of a natural living creature she could conjure before her mind’s eye. After a few bounding steps, she let herself go slack and the chitin covered claw-like front legs failed to maintain their hold around her body. Slipping towards the ground, she finally got the drawn dagger in between them and let gravity do its work. She was almost deafened by an ear-shattering roar and her hands and face were splattered with acrid smelling fluid.

After dragging her some distance over the rocky floor, the once-Mordus came to a sudden halt. Alarmed, Sebille tried to break free, but was instead grabbed by her shoulder, pulled from under the monster’s body and flung forward. For a moment, she felt weightless. Then she fell.

This time, only icy water softened her fall, when she hit the small subterranean river that ran along the cave’s wall. The shock from the cold almost made her miss the sudden sharp pain that pierced her left side. She only managed to crawl halfway out of the water, befor her strength failed her.

…

Her thoughts were blinking in and out of existence. Sebille struggled to remain conscious though she could not exactly say what for. The only one who was currently concerned with her staying alive was the sorry excuse for a god within her. He was becoming frantic, shouting at her to be the champion he had chosen her to be. The champion of her people! She snickered. This had nothing to do with her people, but with the god’s own pitiful struggle to maintain power. When she told him so, he started to whine.

“Bad luck,” she told him, un-sympathising. “Seems, you placed your bets on the wrong elf.”

But at least, Tir-Cendelius had succeeded in interesting her in her own physical state. She still could not see or speak and with all her source drained, there was nothing she could do about it. Her hands, wandering over her body, came back slick with blood. She hoped it was only partly hers and licked it of her fingertips to find out. Her left hand tasted of her own blood and with that clue she quickly found the stab wound her own dagger had inflicted when she had hit the ground. The weapon must have slid out again, the blood was trailing freely. At least, this way, the blade could not insert any more of its poison into the wound. It felt bad enough, as it was, a painful freezing sensation eating into her body.

“Find me!” she pleaded silently, picturing Lohse, Fane, and Ifan in front of her as if thus she could summon her friends. Then oblivion took her.


	7. Not so Gentle (Bad Luck, Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is part 2 of 3:
> 
> Part 1 (Chapter 6): "Bad Luck"  
> Part 3 (Chapter 8): "Awakening"

“Can you lift her? Gently, I mean?” Lohse asked, her voice no more than a concerned whisper, as if speaking aloud could harm the elf even further.

“Can you put her down, even more gently?!” Ifan’s additional question had rather a commanding ring to it. The Lone Wolf was standing so close to the cliff’s edge, the rock started to crumble beneath his feet. His left hand was pressed into a tight fist, his right hand was digging into his spectral wolf’s thick fur. The animal let out a low whimper, trying to pull its master away from the edge and out of immediate danger. Ifan resisted, looking as if he would consider jumping down to where Sebille was lying in the shallow water, pale and motionless. From up here, they were not able to discern, whether she was still breathing.

Fane decided to put these questions down to his companions’ deep concern. He had once tampered with the veil between this world and the Void itself, had succeeded to employ its energy, had been, in fact, the greatest scholar of his people – and probably still was, even though he had been left behind while they had ascended to … somewhere. So, of course, he could lift a body gently. And of course, he could also put it down gently. He would never admit, though, that it was not as easy as simply flinging someone through the air he did not care about. – Possibly the cause for his companions’ doubts about his capabilities.

“I will need some space,” he simply said, not bothering with a direct answer, while already looking for a place to land Sebille on, then concentrating on the distance between their location and the underground river, trying to assess the elf’s weight, the power he would need to lift her, to balance her in the air, and finally lay her on the ground – gently, of course. He frowned mentally.

—

When the fight had been over, they had met with Lohse in the centre of the great cave – the rush of adrenaline and the exuberant feeling of victory overcoming their own pain and fatigue. Fane was, once again, trying to figure out, what kept his undead body on his feet, as in his case, biochemical body reactions did not serve as an explanation.

Mordus had been kneeling in front of Lohse, pleading for his life. At sword point, the dwarf had finally revealed his secrets, or some of them, at least. When pressed to unveil the identity of the person he had so far only referred to as “he”, he had been so torn between loyalty and fear, he had died on the spot, leaving the three companions behind baffled.

“Whoever this anonymous master of his is, the simple thought of his anger petrifies his disciples,” Fane had analysed, not without admiration, but had – not for the first time, either – not been able to continue his assessment before Lohse had turned it into a joke.

“And here I was thinking that we were scary.”

Internally scowling, Fane had started to look after his companions. Lohse’s hair had lost some inches in length and parts of her clothes had burned off, revealing scourged skin. Deeper burns had apparently been caused by the sorcerer’s poisonous attacks. Hidden by flames and smoke, she had, however, forgone being hit by the archers. – Not so Ifan, whose gushing head wound had him blinking constantly. But when Fane had reached for the cut, blue light already spreading between his fingers, the wayfarer had pushed his hands away determinedly.

“Where is Sebille?” he had asked instead, wild eyed, and not even waiting for an answer, but crouching next to his soul wolf, whispering anxiously into the beast’s ears.

“Find her, my boy, please find her!” 

“How would he possibly know her smell?” Arms crossed, Fane had looked at the wolf, speculating.

“Because I know it,” had been the scarce answer. As if that had explained anything. The man was a frustrating riddle, his explanations not once close to being complete or accurate.

“She must be here somewhere.”

Also, he was constantly stating the obvious.

The wolf had, spurned by the urgency in his master’s trembling voice, gone off, snout eagerly held to the ground, tail wagging, followed closely by four eyes and two empty sockets. No one had spoken. They had watched Afrit scamper through the cave, searching for a trail, then go suddenly rigid, sniffing the ground intensely, and bounding off to the cliff’s edge, barking excitedly. Before Lohse or he had had time to react, Ifan had leaped after him.

—

Next to him, Lohse started to fidge, clearly getting nervous as he was taking longer than she had expected. Finally, Fane had adjusted his magical hold of Sebille’s body to his satisfaction and levitated her upwards, arms and legs dangling, but her head steady. Even in his concentration he noted the mixture of water and blood dripping from her body and dissolving into the rushing water below. He picked up the pace as much as possible without destabilising her position.

“Gently, gently,” he reminded himself angrily, muttering under his figurative breath. When he was finally done, Ifan was the first to kneel next to the elf’s still form, a hand to her face. Fane huffed in irritation.

“Get him off her, Lohse,” he ordered briskly, cutting her off, when she started to complain.

“You will do exceedingly more good, if you find the exit to this cave and the shortest way back to town. Leave her to me!”

Lohse had a hard time dragging Ifan up and away – he was fighting her for every step she took. Eventually, he relented and the snarling wolf at his side finally disappeared. Even from his position on the floor next to Sebille, Fane could see the man’s shoulders sack, when he let himself be led away. Fane banned them from his mind, focussing on the woman in front of him, suppressing the fear he knew would only hinder his healing powers. He could not really point at when within their shared adventures he had started to feel fondly for the three people accompanying him in his travels, but when he had stumbled over the emotion, it had irritated him to no small extent. It still did. An eternal life spent as a scientist of highest reputation – a reputation he had gained by fully immersing himself into his experiments, leaving little to no space for warmer feelings, feelings which he had come to consider as distraction – and barely had he returned to the world as an undead, two humans and an elf had somehow crept into his none-existing heart.

He started his examination by looking Sebille over intently, relieved to see little clouds of vapour emerge from her blueish lips. Laying his fingertips to her throat, he could just discern a feeble, sluggish heartbeat. Carefully, he started to undo her armour, laying bare the deep wound in her side, that was still oozing blood and green fluid. He sighed. Her half frozen state, responsible for slowing the flow of her blood but also the spread of the poison, had probably saved her life. She shivered under his probing fingers, but did not wake. He was glad for it. The process of healing would be painful.

Fane only noticed Lohses’s return, when she started talking to him.

“There is waypoint on the beach, just outside the cave …”

He had known it to be there. And had the others cared to listen to his conversation with this undersized barbarian called Lohar, they would have known, too. But Sebille and Ifan had not even joined them, hiding in some corner of the Undertavern and returning all flustered and red-faced, and Lohse had tried and failed to coax information from the dwarf prisoner, Mara.

“… and Ifan has gone back to Driftwood. He said, he knew a place, where we could bring her. The Meistr’s house is not an option. We would draw too much attention towards it. He will signal us with the pyramid and he also requested, you should wear your mask. We are known to travel with a dwarf.”

Ah, so they were capable of rational thinking and planning ahead. Good!

“Yes, yes, very well and well done, indeed! Now, help me. Hold Sebille down. This will hurt her.”

Fane knew his last words to be an understatement, but Lohse’s eyes filled with tears when Sebille’s body started convulsing beneath his hands, purging her blood from the poison.

—

He was feeling utterly exhausted – tired to the bones, he could have called the state he was in, had he liked puns – when the little crystalline pyramid which Lohse had placed on the cave floor in front of them began to emanate pulsing red light. Lohse was so quick to hand him his mask, she must have had it at the ready for quite some while. He had been so focussed, he had not noticed her drawing it from his pack. Fane did not like the dwarfish figure particularly: too small, too stout, too unrefined for his liking. And he abhorred the shift of perspective it necessarily brought with it for someone as tall as him. But now he donned it uncomplainingly. Lohse reached out for his hand, winding her long fingers tight into his suddenly stubby ones and when he had gotten hold of Sebille, she touched the pyramid. The world toppled sideways, the cave losing substance, dissolving into whirling colours and then they landed …

… softly, on silky sheets within a large four-poster bed.

“Uh… oh…,” Lohse gasped, but could not articulate her thoughts any further, as they were addressed by a melodic, cultivated voice.

“Ifan is bidding my latest, uhm, customer farewell.”

The voice belonged to an elegantly but insufficiently dressed female lizard, who was smiling at them warmly, presenting a row of glittering white and sharp teeth. Somewhere below, a male voice was complaining, he would not suffer to be treated like this. He was silenced by Ifan’s terrifying growl. The lizard spoke into the ensuing silence.

“How may I be of help to you?”


	8. Awakening (Bad Luck, Part 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is part 3 of 3:
> 
> Part 1 (Chapter 6): "Bad Luck"  
> Part 2 (Chapter 7): "Not So Gentle"

The deer was pointing its large ears in every direction, head held high, and at the same time sniffing the air intently for any dangers. Big dark eyes were observing the surroundings, the whole lithe body poised for running. When no apparent danger rushed out of the undergrowth into the open grassy area alongside the narrow brook, the animal finally relaxed a little. Its head sank slowly towards the gurgling current and when its nose finally touched the water’s surface, it began to drink in long, even draughts.

Ifan checked the direction of the wind once more, before moving forwards on the deer path ever so slowly. When he reached what he considered the perfect position, his practised hands inserted a bolt into his crossbow almost on their own accord. He lifted the weapon, steadied it with the other hand and took careful aim, calming his breath, finding the perfect spot, just behind the animal’s shoulder blade. Another deep intake of air, then he slowed his breathing to almost a halt, listening to the throb of his blood in his ears, ready to shoot in between two heartbeats. One, two, …

“Run!” he shouted, watching the deer shy away from the water and then bolt for cover. He let his crossbow sink and followed it with his eyes as long as he could see it bounding through the trees. Only when he could no longer discern any movement did he let his breath find back in its natural rhythm.

The concentration gone, his anger returned. He was dawdling, he knew that. In fact, he had been ever since they had found shelter in the top floor room in the Black Bull – a room that he was simultaneously drawn to while being unable to remain in it calmly for very long. When his armour had been cleaned and repaired and they all had, one by one, slipped out at night to visit Meistr Sivah and replenish on the source they craved so much, Ifan had excused himself and taken to spending the days outside. Outside the room, outside the tavern – outside Driftwood, in fact. He felt guilty, towards Lohse especially, whom he was imposing on the most. With Fane being busy taking care of Sebille and their host, Zahrah, not a fighter, Lohse had to stay put and secure the room. Just in case.

—

All was was quiet upon his return. Or almost so. The gentle snoring of the female lizard vibrated through the air. It was a low wheezing sound, punctuated from time to time by a quick hiss, when the forked tongue slid out over sharp teeth and scales. Ifan was not even sure whether he really heard the sound or whether he remembered it from before. He allowed himself a rueful grin. The whole situation was more then awkward, but he had not known where else to turn. They had needed a place, preferably with a bed, where they could stay for more than a few hours without raising suspicion. Here they had the help of Yngenia, the owner of the tavern, whom he had charmed in their first encounter by listening to her overly proud account of the accomplishments of her misbegotten son and nodding in the right moments, and of Wyvlia, the elven cook, who owed them for not giving her away to the magisters. Not to forget Zahrah, the source of the gentle snoring, who had told all her customers she had to postpone her appointments due to illness. It appeared, she had taken the business in her own hands, since Ifan’s surprise visit had lastingly scared the dwarf brigands out of this business. 

Fane was still sitting in the chair next to the four-poster bed, but his stocky dwarvish body had slipped down the better part of the seat and threatened to drop all the way to the floor. Not in the need to breath, he was completely silent.

“Ah, you’re back!” Lohse looked up from the book she had been reading. She had a candle precariously stacked on top of another pile of books next to her. Ifan was sure, should they remain in this room much longer, she would probably burn the tavern to its grounds. He had only just opened his mouth for a rebuke, when Lohse cut him short.

“She is better. Since midday. Had you been here, you had known.” She got up and crossed over towards him, catching his arm just when he started to move towards the large bed.

“Ifan, I am really eager to get out of here and thus am also awfully happy to see your face, but actually, I am hardly able to see it under all the grime. And …” She moved even closer, sniffing at his hair, and drew back in what he hoped was mock disgust but feared was real. “… also you stink! So, I will bite my time a little longer and you! go! out! and! wash! yourself!”

Although he had agreed to a change of clothes and, of course, seen to his armour, and also he had been out in the open all day, Ifan had not more than washed his face and hands ever since they had entered Wrecker’s Cave. Therefore, when Lohse shoved him out of the same door that he had just come in through, he found himself in loss of a viable objection.

Afterwards, he felt much better, of course. Bathing and swimming in the river behind the Meistr’s house had revived his spirits and, he hated to admit it, made him feel human again. Fortunately, there was no-one but himself present to admit it to. Lohse must have decided it was safe to go out after all.

She had also been right in another point. When he stepped towards the bed in the centre of the rooms upper story, he found that Sebille had finally slipped from her state of constant fretfulness into deep, restorative sleep. There was enough space on the matress, so he awkwardly smoothed the cover first – for no reason even plain to himself – then sat next to her, one leg drawn up beneath him, the other foot still on the floor. For a while he did not move, nor did his eyes focus on anything specific. They roamed over the floral pattern of the bed-cover, over Sebille’s white hands, up the bed’s velvety curtains, to its canopy, and then his gaze got lost for a while, before finally hefting itself to Sebille’s still face.

“You are bringing some mess into my life,” he confronted the sleeping elf, glad she did not hear and could not answer. He was speaking these words for his own benefit alone, trying to force himself to confess this simple truth that had been meddling with his thoughts for a while now. He found himself incapable of figuring out, what it was that gave the elven woman such a hold over his life that she could make a mess of it. He wondered, whether Sebille’s presence made him aware that it had not been so very tidy in the first place. Simple, ordered, and weirdly principled, but not tidied. Her story had toppled over the last of his believes: The belief that a life running errands, a life based on contracts, a life of detachment could be enough; that since the believes of his younger years had failed him, he would not need any ever again. Staring at her he finally understood Roost’s premise that Lone Wolfs should under no circumstances acquaint themselves with their victims. Almost kissing certainly counted as acquainting, but of course it had started before that incident.

Truth be told, it had started, when she had not killed him because the sun had been shining. He had felt intrigued to meet somebody who had been able to admit her moment of vulnerability, however short, and had been able to overcome her weakness so swiftly, even though it had meant putting her needle to his throat and threatening his life. Since then, their relationship had been a constant ebb and flow between initial mistrust and opening up to each other. Each time he had allowed himself a moment of doubt as to her reliablity, she had had his back. Each time he had thought that she could eventually warm towards him or the other members of their group, she had recoiled. Until the Undertavern, where to his great surprise, she had done the exact opposite. Thus, even now, she remained a mystery.

“And I like it,” Ifan finally admitted with a relieved chuckle. Almost timidly he stretched out his right hand and took one of hers from the cover of the bed. He was not sure he would ever solve this breathing riddle before him, but he decided he would try. 

—

“I see you!” Sebille’s voice, hoarse from disuse and hardly more than a low whisper, made him jump. Hastily he tried to retract his hand, but her fingers had already curled around his, taking hold of his hand in return. Ifan allowed himself a brief moment in which relieve washed over and through him, undoing the tight knot that had settled within his guts for the past few days. Then he cast her a crooked smile. He felt weirdly found out.

“And I see you,” he answered the traditional elvish greeting.

“No, I mean it, I can see you,” she repeated and continued just as opaquely: “And I speak to you.”

Ifan frowned in incomprehension but decided to let it pass.

“And you are dripping.”

It seemed, that she was not going to comment on the two of them holding hands. He examined her closely, trying to read from her eyes, her expression, or her lips how he was expected to behave. The candlelight intensified the shining amber of her eyes and he could clearly see them dart from his face, down to somewhere in the vicinity of his collarbone, to their entwined hands, and very quickly back again. But she still did not remove her hand from his. Instead, as if it was living a life on its own, her thumb came to rest on top of his hand, then started to draw little, absent-minded circles. Trying and failing to suppress the rising heat in his face, Ifan decided that this was not yet the time for the two of them to talk. When she was better, when he was rested, when the sun was up, or when the bloody world was ending… - That would be the time. He did not feel relieved, however. 

Covering his embarrassment with a laugh, he reached up with his free hand and pulled the unruly and indeed dripping lock of hair out of his face, then tucked it behind his right ear.

“Lohse made me bath,” he explained, making Sebille smile in return.

“But not sleep. You look tired. Is my presence still keeping you from sleeping tight?” she observed mockingly.

He should never have told her that. And he would certainly not tell her, that her presence had started to have him on edge in a completely different way.

“Good, you still fear me then.” There was a twinkle in her eyes betraying her mirth. But he could also hear from the strained tone of her voice, that she was already tiring.

Their conversation continued in this light manner for only a short while longer, both of them not paying any apparent attention to what their hands were doing, before Sebille’s eyes began to droop and eventually she drifted off into sleep again. Ifan stayed next to her, keeping her hand in his, frowning.

“I feared for you,” he corrected her, admittedly because she would no longer here him.

———————————-

The next time she opened her eyes in brought daylight and to a far too toothy smile set within a blue face hovering above her. A clawed hand was just withdrawing from her face, a wet cloth held gingerly between the slender fingers, also blue. Sebille remembered that her last dreamy vision of Ifan, dark, alluring, and dripping wet, sitting in her bed, had taken a ridiculous turn when the man had suddenly moved forward to lick her face. She felt a sudden and very hot rage towards this blue hand and the cloth it held. Also, she was more then a little startled.

“There is a lizard in my bed!” she heard herself shriek, hating the said lizard even more for making her sound so foolish. She tried to withdraw, but the blanket, which someone had tucked her in expertly, would not let go. She hated the blanket too. 

“I am Zahrah and I greet you, Sebille,” the toothy smile answered irritatingly gently and Sebille could finally see that it belonged to an elegant and very beautiful female lizard with scales of saphire blue.

“Zahrah is an acquaintance of Ifan.” Fane’s voice reached her from a stool close to the bed she was lying in. It sounded weirdly voluminous. Since she could not sit up she could only see him by turning her head. He was in his dwarf form, which explained the alteration in his voice. Broader chest, larger cavity, more volume.

“She has kindly corrected me in my misassumption, that among the races currently inhabiting Rivellon, being acquainted and having sexual intercourse would necessarily lead to a deepening of this said acquaintance.”

Sebille felt her ears grow hot and did no longer know, where to look. Certainly not at Zahrah, who was not only beautiful, but infuriatingly so. Something sharp tugged at her chest. Weird, she had thought the stab wound had been in her left side.

“Fane, enough!” Lohse’s sharp words succeeded to silence the undead. Sebille beheld Ifan standing right behind her, glowering at Fane. When he was sure, that the other man would not continue in his ill-timed musing, he turned towards her. Meeting her gaze, he had the grace to blush, before he shrugged apologetically and his smile turned wolfish. She shot him an angry glance, but realised she could not support it for long. She sighed.

“Great, Sebille, you woke up just in time for lunch!” Lohse freed her from the oppressive blanket, then helped her sit up and propped her against a small mountain of pillows. The stew she retrieved from Zahrah’s helping hands made Sebille’s mouth water and her stomach grumble. “Wyvlia sends her best regards and wishes for your health.” Or maybe the stew did not look so appetizing after all. Maybe she should wait a little longer before trusting her stomach. She eyed the stew with suspicion. But already Lohse was raising a spoon towards Sebille’s mouth.

“Ah, and she specifically asked me to point out, that she would never use human ingredients in a stew intended for a sister.”


	9. Star-crossed lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting: the cellar of Ryker's mansion

„All right, everyone, give me all your food!”

Lohse clapped her hands to have the others’ attention, then opened them, palms upwards, forming a small bowl. She had already searched her own pack but had come up with only a piece of stale bread and an apple. They had planned to return to Driftwood by nightfall and thus not bothered to stock up on their supplies. She turned expectantly towards Fane first.

“You may not have noticed, but I have advanced past this kind of profane nourishment. Also, I must explicitly express my severest reservations against supporting a relationship so unlikely to last.” 

Lohse looked at him for a while, than shrugged.

“I did not really put you down for a romantic anyway, bone boy.” She turned around, facing the elf.

“Sebille? Your provisions?”

Sebille cast an unbelieving glance at the bard. “You cannot be serious, Lohse, this is ridiculous!”

“Oh, but I am! – Well, at least get of the stairs. You’re frightening the little guy.” She would not be put off so easily.

Sebille let out an exasperated snarl. “And well he should be! And the other one too. I heard they make for great soup!” But she did get up, patting the dirt from her trousers, before she rummaged in her pack and tossed another apple at Lohse.

“Really, I am waiting outside. This is taking too long, the air in here is awful, and I would much rather stand in the rain. Care to join me, Fane?” Not waiting for a reply, she turned and made for the ladder that led from the cellar into the mansion above.

“She will vastly outlive him, you do realise that?” Fane made a last attempt at winning Lohse over by facts, but was not very surprised to fail. The woman had already started to break the bread into crumbs and slicing the apples. He followed the elf out.

Lohse caught Ifan’s eye. The man was still listening with admirable patience to the tediously slow rambling of the love-stricken turtle. He smiled at her wolfishly.

“So, it’s down to you and me, Ifan. Humans for romance!” She winced at her own bad rhyming, then began to lay out a thin line of breadcrumbs and appleslices up the steps. Together they watched the rat scurry from treat to treat, watched it stop in its track, behold the turtle and … forget about eating.

“Awww, love!” Lohse rejoiced, clapping her hands again, this time in glee. Ifan stared at the two animals, smiling wistfully, then looked towards the ladder and frowned. Lohse caught his expression.

“You know, if a rat can, I am sure she can learn to love as well.” She nudged him gently, wresting a laugh from her friend.

“Are you implying, I am the turtle?”

Lohse grinned mischievously.

“Or that you must improve your cooking skills.”


	10. Cause and Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Cloisterwood, after gaining the third Source point from Hannag

“They do not speak to me anymore!”

Ifan took a surprised step back from the two bears, when their growls turned from inquisitive to threatening. He had his hands stretched out, palms upwards, as if the animals were able to identify this gesture of submission. But it seemed he was rather startled by his inability to understand their threat than by the threat itself.

“They say, it is their honey and we cannot have … Wait, why would they not speak to you?”

Sebille shot a puzzled look at Ifan, who only shrugged and continued backing away, until he had reached Lohse and Fane. Sebille in return approached the two beasts, trying to figure out, what was happening here.

“And all the bees are dead,” she interpreted for the sake of her friends. Turning towards them, she found her own confusion mirrored in Lohse’s face, Fane’s being unreadable for obvious reasons. Ifan, however, furrowed his forehead in irritation.

“Did I kill the bees then, too?” he pressed between clenched teeth, anger, exasperation as well as a deeply felt guilt mingling in his expression. “How could I trust a person who created a weapon as terrible as the death fog? Why did I convince her to fight her grieve? Instead, I should have let her choke on it!”

He was not being exactly fair to himself. Had their encounter with the sourceress proceeded according to Ifan’s wishes, Hannag would indeed have choked, but from his hands around her throat. Sebille grimaced at his words. Afraid he would, eventually, come to regret another unnecessary death, she had thrown in all her weight to convince him not to kill the woman. In afterthought, she had trouble following her own reasoning. She only remembered Ifan’s initial surprise at her words, followed by his earnest declaration of trust in her, followed by the awful pain in his eyes, when Hannag’s lecture in how to fully master their source had resulted in the death of all animals in the Cloisterwood.

“I could just tattoo the word ‘mass murderer’ into my skin.”

Ifan’s angrily hissed words made her wince, not sure whether he referred to her tattoos deliberately or by chance.

“A number of reasons could account for this perplexing phenomenon,” Fane interrupted Ifan’s self-chastising, falling into what the others had termed his lecture-voice and instantly making Lohse and Sebille role their eyes.

“First, there is climate change. I have noted that the atmosphere in Rivellon has both become warmer as well as more humid since my demise. I cannot, of course, speak more specifically since I have neither the equipment nor the time for more detailed analysis, but I assure you I am rather relieved this new physical form does not suffer from mosquito bites.”

“Which brings me to the next hypothesis: competition over food or being food. The bees may have died of hunger, because some other animal has taken over their food source. Or, some other animal is a predator to bees and has eaten them. The first hypothesis we can safely abandon, since the hives are still filled with the honey those two bears are not wont to share. As to the second hypothesis, I can only give the same answer as before: no equipment, no time. It would, however, take a large amount of predators like birds or other insects to annihilate a swarm of bees in so short a time. I thus suppose it is save to assume that we would have noticed the attack.”

A bony finger for each hypothesis punctuated Fane’s words. He had succeeded in drawing Lohse’s and also Ifan’s attention, both listening with amazed concentration to his remarks. Meanwhile, Sebille had moved away from the bears towards a male corps lying on the forest ground close to the bee hives. She crouched and ran a hand over the body, trying to discern what had caused its death.

“Finally, and connected to the abandoned hypothesis of starvation, is that of poisoning. The Driftwood fields are only a short flight away and who can say what those smelly barbarians use for fertilizing their crops? Since I have taken no samples and also certainly do not wish to do so, I must guess from the odour and would assume guano, but I will not rule out something even more unsavoury.”

Wrapping up his lecture, Fane turned to Ifan.

“Summing up, I must advise against any rash conclusions. Any of the said hypotheses, also including your unhappy exchange of source against souls with Hannag, may account for the bees’ disappearance. Nature is rarely mono-causal and man, even though one would like to suspect otherwise, is not in the centre of all evil. Thus, neither are you and I rest my case.”

“Or,” Sebille’s voice filled the ensuing silence, “the simple explanation is that the bees have been eaten by the bears.”

The elf still crouched next to the dead man’s body but was no longer alone. A silvery glistening and opaque figure had joined her and was looking sadly at its own body. Sebille cocked her head as if listening and they could see a relieved smile spread gradually over her face. The ghost turned his attention towards her, clearly appalled by her lacking sense of propriety in the face of his death.

“This unlucky man here had the brilliant idea to complement his otherwise dismal diet with sweet, sweet honey. The bees, rather irritated by his attempted theft, attacked and stung him, causing his death and their own. The bears then ate the bees. Case not rested, but closed.”

When she had finished, Sebille’s smile had evolved from relieved to smug. She wiped her hands clean in the grass before getting up and returning to the other three.

“Anyone can just ask the dead,” Fane complained, feeling slighted. The elf only winked at him.

“It’s called pragmatism!”  
—

“Fane, thank you!”

Ifan’s strong hand fell on Fane’s bony shoulder, forcing the undead to turn around.

“Whatever for?”

“Convincing me that the bees’ disappearance had natural causes. That was a kind thing to do and I appreciate it.”

Fane took a moment to answer, struggling to understand.

“But I was wrong!” he finally exclaimed, still reproaching himself for overlooking the simplest answer to the mystery. Ifan’s initial grin grew into a chuckle.

“Yes, you were. Or better, you were just not right. But that is besides the point, my friend!”

And with these words, a very bewildered Fane found himself being pulled into a bear hug that made his bones crack. Though he felt greatly relieved not to be reliant on breathing, he also found the unexpected display of sentiment more comforting, than he would ever admit even to himself.


	11. The Past Retold, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Travelling from Reaper's Coast to the Nameless Isle, on board the Lade Vengeance

Beneath his hand the wood was warm and vibrant, responding with an almost inaudible hum to his soft touch. He let his fingers slide over the craggy surface absent-mindedly, but giving it more attention, once he sensed the shudder of pleasure with which it reacted to his caressing. His gaze wandered over the wooden scales wistfully. In the middle of the night, with only the mist-covered moonlight and an occasional star allowing him to see, the usually rich auburn tone had reduced to grey, making the dark cracks and fissures covering the surface stand out more distinctly in contrast. The ship’s response to his gentle touch could not help but make him wonder what hardness the living wood it was cut from had had to endure. Since it did not speak to him with discernible words, his imagination took him places he rather did not want to visit. Not on the first peaceful night he had had for what felt like a time beyond measuring.  
Ifan trusted his darker thoughts to the gentle sea breeze on which wisps of fog drifted over the ship’s deck, all but hiding large pats of midship and the stern and thus also the few other solitude figures that shared the night in waking with him. Since he had come on deck and towards the prow with his mind set on for once being on his own, he greatly appreciated the weather.  
The Lady Vengeance gently rocked on shallow waves on her way towards the shores of the Nameless Isle – a place he would not have known existed before he had been plugged by a dying god from a less accommodating sea and had only truly learned about in the past few weeks, when all their adventures had culminated in clues leading towards it. Frankly, what he had heard, experienced, and seen only made him wish they would travel in the opposite direction. 

“You should be traversing more friendly waters and heading towards more promising destinations. Yet, you chose not to. Thank you, for your loyalty,” he thanked the ship, making a shiver run through the dragon head that he only recognised as a chuckle when a tingling sensation simultaneously warmed the palm of his hand. An ancestor tree, cut down and forced into the form of a ship, but still maintaining its sense of humour? – Remarkable. Pressing his palm more firmly to the carved scales, he moved closer to were he assumed a dragon’s ear to be.

“You’re of the right kind, you know?”

He enjoyed the ship’s constant but unobtrusive company, the more so, since he could not say to be feeling the same kind of certainty towards all his fellow passengers. Though shrouded from his view, Ifan had little trouble pinpointing the location of those sharing the deck with him, since he had made sure of their positions when stepping out from below deck into the warm and salty air. Not taking his eyes from the surface of the sea, freckled with the waves’ glistening tips and covered in alternating patches of soft light and mellow dark, his mind sought out each and everyone of them. Tarquin, whose caustic humour he could appreciate while not trusting the man further than the tip of his nose. Gareth, whose unimpaired sense of honour he admired, begrudged, and condemned in its foolish naivety. And finally, Malady, furthest from him, next to the ship’s steering wheel, the greatest mystery of them all, with motives far beyond his understanding. Still, he tried, if only because he felt responsible for keeping his friends away from possible threats. Lohse seemed to be somewhat warming towards her, possibly because of what he regarded as a mistaken sense of shared experiences. Malady’s past life was certain to surpass anything any of them could even imagine, lest alone sympathise with.  
Thinking about Lohse brought him to the last person he wanted to consider in the way he had just characterised the other three: As one whom he was not sure he could fully trust. Her inner struggles against the demon had intensified ever since Jahan’s failed attempt to exorcise it and even more so since they had returned to the ship, the usually so cheerful and open personality increasingly growing in on herself. Ifan did not belief her to be as fine, as she claimed, given that her usual effervescent nature was turning as cold and remote as he was otherwise used from Sebille or Fane. He also strongly doubted that her motive for growing in power was purely her own. 

“Chief?!”

It seemed, it did not need words to call forth the devil, thinking sufficed.  
Ifan briefly considered hiding in the fog. With his dark silhouette against the darker background of the Lady Vengeance’s figure head, Lohse would have a hard time finding him – at least for a while. But there was an urgency in her voice that he found impossible to ignore or resist.

“Up front, Lohse!” 

With calling out to her, he pushed himself away from the dragonhead – not without a last comradely pat – and moved to meet the bard. Lohse stopped upon perceiving him and beckoned him to follow her with a determined wave of her hand.

“What is..?”

“It’s Sebille!” The words instantly tightened the knot in his guts that seemed reserved for Sebille alone and seemed impossible to fully undo. He jumped down onto the main deck, ignoring the steps leading there, and hurried towards Lohse. “She is having a nightmare.”

Lohse took him by his right hand – unnecessarily, since she had his full attention and could be sure of him following – and pulled him with her, down the flight of stairs into the ship’s main body, then through the trapdoor further down to where they had found the hammocks surprisingly comfortable for sleeping under constant movement. Sebille, uncomfortable with sharing a room with more than just the few people she claimed to trust, had chosen a hammock to the far end. In the diffuse lamplight, Ifan could only just see its movement being out of tune with the rhythm of the waves and Fane standing close in an attempt to steady it. Besides their little group only Jahan and Han were present, though asleep and snoring blissfully. Almira and Mihaly had no doubt once again sneaked into some solitary corner and cuddled up.  
The snoring was, next to the ever present creaking of wood, the only sound. Nightmares hit Sebille with an iron grip to her consciousness, even denying her the release to scream and just as often also to wake up on her own accord. Reaching the end of the row of hammocks, Ifan could thus only just hear a vicious hiss emanating from within the canvas followed by a low clinking sound. Fane abruptly jerked his head backwards and covered his chin with his skeletal fingers. 

“She attacked me,” he complained, managing to look reproachful even without eyes to support it and rubbing his fingertips over a new ditch in his lower jaw, where apparently the needle had struck. The weapon was now buried in the hem of the canvas and before it could be retracted for a renewed attack, Ifan had pushed the undead unceremoniously out of his way and taken Sebille’s slender wrists into his hands. Through the tender skin on the reverse side of her arms, he sensed her pulse beating rapidly against his skin.

“We can’t wake her,” Lohse explained while at the same time prying Fane’s hand from his jaw to have a look. 

“And we assumed that you would be better befitted to do so, than any of us.” Obviously feeling smug about for once coming up with the right conclusion concerning the issue of relationships, Fane stopped fussing about the bit of bone he had lost and gently pushed Lohse’s hands away. “Thank you, Lohse, but seeing that my capacities in healing surpass yours by far, I think I am perfectly able to see to this, while Ifan kisses our sleeping beauty awake.”

Ifan, far too cautious to kiss a woman who had turned into a wild cat without even waking and who was currently squirming frantically under his firm grip, cast an unbelieving look over his left shoulder. “Just what books have you been reading of lately?” he grunted, still straining with Sebille’s desperate attempts to break free. 

“The board library unfortunately is ill equipped to satisfy my desire for knowledge – or my tastes.” Fane dismissed the very idea of ever finding a library equal to satisfying both with a wave of his hand. “Also, Lohse suggested widening my horizon. A correct suggestion in itself, I must say, though so far this quest has proven frustratingly unsuccessful.”

A soft moan, escaping Sebille’s lips, that so far had been sealed shut through all their struggling, drew the momentarily diverted attention of her friends towards her. There would still be time to talk with Fane about his taste in books and his failure to procure the right ones and Ifan made a quick mental note, not to forget about it, given that the issue promised some entertainment.

“Let us alone, please!” he asked and added an ascertaining “I have this!” when he became aware of Lohse’s and Fane’s doubtful glances. Eventually, Fane stepped back from Sebille’s hammock, turned to his own, pulled a thick volume out from within it, and, upon leaving, took Lohse with him. Ifan heard him taking up a conversation from earlier on, before the two of them had been interrupted by Sebille. 

“You are saying that a princess, capable of turning a frog into a prince, is not a witch? - Tell me again, why would she resort to kissing an amphibian in the first place?” Their voices receded within the dark hull and Ifan, though curious what Lohse would answer, heeded them no longer. Soon the conversation became inaudible, when the two ascended to the next level and Ifan was left alone with two oblivious and one restless sleeper. 

He shifted his grip from restraining Sebille’s hands to simply holding them firmly within his own, his thumbs stroking steadily over the back of her hands. He could see her eyes darting about beneath her eyelids, blue veins and the red scar standing out in stark contrast to her otherwise flawless skin. She had stopped struggling, but her breath came in rugged huffs, her breast heaving as if she had been exerting herself fully. – They all had nightmares, once in a while, and all were particular. They did not talk about their content, but they all had heard Fane calling out for his lost family during the few times he actually slept and Lohse would wake up from them dark eyed and snappish. His own bad dreams were filled with clouds of turquoise fog and screams making his guilt surmount up to a point at which he sincerely wished Afrit had not appeared to pull him into safety.  
From Roost’s words addressed at Sebille, Ifan was able to formulate an educated guess as to what her nightmares held in store for her. He had hoped that killing the man would allow her some repose, but it seemed the Master still stood between the elf and easy sleep.  
When he was fairly certain, Sebille would remain calm, he removed his right hand from hers and instead tenderly cupped her cheek.

“Sebille! Dear one, listen to me!” His fingers pulled a strand of dishevelled dark hair from her alabaster forehead before stroking lightly over her closed eyelids. “Come, wake up!”

It took a while in which he continued to softly coax her from sleep with words and light touches, even resorting to self-consciously humming a simple elven children’s tune of greeting the early morning sun he remembered from the last years of his own childhood. All the time though, he could not help but remembering, how he had had to do the same for Lohse only a short while back, though under much graver circumstances. In the end his efforts were rewarded by a repetition of the earlier moan and finally, Sebille’s eyes fluttered open. She blinked, eyes unfocussed, clearly fighting to gather her wits about her, while Ifan waited patiently for her to notice him. When she did, he could see the pain in her eyes receding slowly and with that his own tension giving way. Clearly exhausted the only word that escaped her dry lips was a gasped “Air!”

“Come then!” Cautiously, he helped her up, his arms ready to catch her should she stumble. Sebille was not one to be carried (and besides, she was too tall for him to do so comfortably), so he only steadied her and remained half at her side, half behind her, one hand at her elbow, the other supporting her waist, for all their slow way up towards the night air. 

“I have made a friend who will keep us company while also respecting and safe-guarding our privacy.”  
Sebille cast him a mocking look, intensifying his relief, given that her sharply raised eyebrow meant she was returning to her former self. To his disappointment, though, this also meant that she left his arms as soon as she became aware of Gareth, a few steps ahead of them, with his back turned towards them. It was not surprising though and Ifan understood her need to not show her short moment of weakness to anyone else but him. Had she been able to avoid it, she would surely have hid it from him as well, despite all their weeks of travelling together and also despite what had transpired between them more recently.

“You do know I have spoken with the Lady Vengeance before you, don't you?” she added teasingly to her look, but smiled. “But it is a good choice of friends, Ifan!”  
She took the lead from there and also his hand, almost as Lohse had done before, only that she was not pulling him along, but took care to remain at his side, as he could not help but notice. And surely enough, when they had found their way to the prow, the dragon head turned towards them with a slow and creaking movement, focussing upon them over a none-existing shoulder. When she led go of her hold of him and bridged the small gap between her and the figurehead, Ifan remained behind, determined to grant her the space she needed. He watched her trail her slender fingers over the dark wood unknowingly mimicking his own movements. For a while it seemed Sebille would remain standing there, silently watching the waves, content just by taking deep, consoling breaths, but finally she spoke, her wistful words sending goosebumps over the skin on his neck. 

“You know, I only ever wanted to be happy.”


	12. The Past Retold, Part 2

_The forest ground vanishes beneath their feet, the distance eaten by their fleeting steps. Springy moss is exchanged by beds of soft fallen needles, followed by loamy sand. Their steps do not falter, their is no consideration of the best point to propel themselves forwards from, nor of where to best land on the other side of the shallow but wide brook; there is only exhilaration and the glorious feeling of being weightless, before the chase continues. They have no aim, nothing to be chased but the joy brought to them by running, touching the ground but lightly, flying past trees whose trunks blur into a shady greyish brown as their eyes are unable to focus on anything but what lies directly ahead. Their minds are set on less substantial objects – on the flickers of sunshine, on the coolness beneath the canopy of trees, on the fresh air on their burning cheeks, on the rapid and exuberant beating of their hearts, and of the freedom it all proclaims. The blur of trees grows lighter, gaps appearing in the so far brown wall, golden light streaming through. Their feet slow from racing to a light trot when the narrow path before them widens and eventually disperses into a grass covered meadow bathed in sunlight. Eventually, they slow to walking altogether._

_Through the thrumming of their own heartbeat, the songs of birds register for the first time. Eyes close briefly, then open in wonder, taking in surroundings that seem meant to compliment their joy. Their pace quickens again, but their steps lose their straight line, feet straying sideways, turning, twisting and their body just follows along in a slow and graceful dance, arms spread like supporting wings, palms greeting the sun, hair flying. When their breath has calmed sufficiently, their lips open, tasting the fresh air filled with the smell of grass in the sun, and their voice joins the birds in their singing._

_The light sandals are shed first, a small heap of leather straps soon to be forgotten, allowing the now fully bare feet to enjoy the tickle of blades of grass and the occasional wet spot where the sun has not yet been able to kiss last night’s rain and the morning’s dew from the green. The dreamy dance is only interrupted, when their feet suddenly stumble into water. Their eyes take in the small but deep pond, dark water covered by water lilies, and shortly after the rest of their clothes meet the same fate as the sandals. A splash, a sharp inhale of breath as their skin is enveloped by cold water and they dive into it, head first, arms parting the waves they themselves created. Strong, slender legs kick against the pond’s surface and they dive deeper until their hands touch the ground. Another kick and they face upwards, arms keeping them floating steady. The birdsong is replaced by a soft low gurgling, bubbles of their breath streaming past their ears. The sunlight flickers at the surface but only occasionally a long shaft of diluted gold breaches the leaves of the water lilies and reaches down towards them. Oblivious to the chill, they remain until their lungs begin to burn and they let themselves be carried upwards by the natural draft. They breach the surface with a gasp for air, laughing at the same time._

 _The laugh slows into softer chuckling when they lie in the grass next to the pond and let the sun and the gentle breeze dry their skin. Goosebumps disappear alongside the drops of water and even the chuckling subsides, eventually leaving behind nothing but the glorious feeling of being warm, fresh, whole, and so very alive!_

Sebille was leaning against the Lady Vengeance’s figure head, her own head resting in a wooden depression between two rings of scales. Her eyes, though opened wide, were staring at nothing this night had to offer. It was another day and another place she was seeing. And she had taken him there, too. Never had Ifan imagined Sebille so enticing a tale-teller. She had given small indications of this hidden talent of hers before, that was true, but always had she laced her words with sarcasm and spite, effectively assuring that her listeners remained at the distance assigned to them. This time had been different. Her voice had drawn him into her story, had even made her memories seem like his own. He felt breathless and overwhelmed. His own heartbeat was racing as the two of them had been through the forest of her past. A broad grin was decorating his face and he felt giddy beyond description.

Throughout her tale he had always watched her with the strange sensation of beholding her twice: the pensive Sebille right now and right here as well as the dancing Sebille, who seemed so much younger and so free of care. Fortunately, he knew that careless she had not been, so that the change in her voice, denoting the downward turn of her story, did not come with much of a surprise.

_With light slumber the voice returns, as it always does when the diversion has found its end and the mind is coming to rest. It matters not were and when: dancing slowly in the rain, falling asleep in the sun, losing herself in poetry, cuddling with bear cubs – rest her mind cannot for long, since the voice always finds her and it is persistent. It calls out to her – luring whispers, soft spoken and gentle, and so frightening she snaps wide awake instantly. But once the voice has taken hold, it cannot be driven away so easily. Not by so simple a thing as waking anyway. The sun still shines, basking her skin in its wondrously warm light, but she starts freezing over from the inside, darkness clouding her thoughts far faster than it has taken her to drive it away. Eventually, she will get up, gather her clothes, even find her sandals and then her way back – home, as they say – into the embraces of warm arms, to the greetings of radiant smiles, to the voices calling her name reverently. Until that name is detached from her self, is no longer her own, but that of a person she shall and must be, but is not._

“Can you imagine? Countless voices incanting my name and I was not even sure it was mine at all? Isn’t that silly?” Sebille met his gaze with a rueful smile. Never had he seen her like this: timid, almost shy, the depth of her uncertainty showing plainly.

“Only when I met our mutual friend,” she stroked the Lady Vengeance's scaly neck almost lovingly, “did I learn that I am not alone in my doubts concerning the Mother Tree’s motives. Power always strives for more power. Death and domination is all it ever gives birth to.” The pain in her voice made Ifan open his lips to sooth her, but she cut his words off before he was even able to think of the proper ones to say. An almost harsh gesture bisected the air in front of him, but he could see that the harshness resulted not from anger but from Sebille’s need to continue talking. She looked at him imploringly and he settled for a reassuring nod instead.

“Go on, dearest.”

“It seems that this is the prime lecture we are to learn from this journey, does it not? That power cannot be trusted.” She heaved a deep sigh. “We are but used as pawns in other’s games.” Her words mirrored Ifan’s own thoughts far too closely for his own comfort. Sharing in his sentiments, Sebille made them seem real. A reality he had pushed from his mind time and time again.

“Who explores their champion’s weaknesses to make them compliant instead of bolstering their strengths? Only those that fear for their own position. I am but a slave, you are but a soldier. And the Mother Tree still finds its ways to call for me. - But that does bring me back to my story. I apologise that it will not end as cheerful as it begun.”

Ifan only nodded again. Her story’s course had hardly let him invest into hopes for a happy ending. Had her words initially invited him to share, even to participate in her joyful memories, they had grown more distant with every step the Sebille of old had taken to retract her path from imagined freedom – until at last he was resigned to stand by. It made him think of an earlier conversation, when he had first chanced upon Sebille’s unique mixture of bitterness, resignation or acceptance, and hope. She had talked about the woman she had been, the woman she was, and the woman she wanted to be, and ever since had he wondered which one he was encountering. Unable to solve this mystery in the current situation, Ifan extended his hands towards the Sebille that was here with him, hoping he could help her to be whoever she wanted. To his immense relieve, she accepted the gesture and fitted her hands neatly into his.

_The darkness is no longer a comforting blanket, draped around her shoulders warmly and velvety to the touch. Where once the night has held no terror, it has now become every bit as terrifying as stories, whispered among elflings from under the protective cover of their beds, describe it to be. The darkness clings to the air she is breathing. Clammy and moist, it invades her lungs, her bloodstream, and from there floods through her body and mind. The sounds of night have stopped weaving into natural lullabies and turned into the voices of hidden monstrosities. She no longer runs through the once friendly forest, but creeps through it on high alert, ready to turn and flee at any real or imagined movement in the dark. It is not the first night she spends in trepidation, nor will it be the last, she fears. The days, however, only serve to show her plainly, that what she fears at night – the growls of animals, roots she stumbles over, vines that grab at her tattered gowns with unseen but relentless fingers – is not the imagination of a fear-ridden mind, but truly to be feared. She can see the sharp teeth snarling at her, the claws lashing out, the brambles ensnaring her ankles. She is so desolate and tired that when she first hears the voices, her heart rejoices. Her home treats her like an alien being, a festering limb that cannot heal but must be removed, so it seems time to seek the company of others and make a new home. It is too late, when she realises her mistake. The shouts of the men, finally in comprehensible words, cheer each other to find and catch her. She bolts, but her flight is only short. She is too exhausted to run or to fight. A snare glides over her head, loops around her neck and then cuts deep, effectively suffocating her cries. From there, the days become as dark as the nights._

“I have been dreaming about this flight even when the scar had wiped out my memories. It does not become less scary when one does not know the origin of one’s dreams.”

Ifan did not find words to say. The farther Sebille had distanced herself from her own tale and the pain it must have brought, the closer did it get to him. By the time she had finished, he felt his inside writhing in the pain she apparently no longer allowed herself to feel. So when he suddenly used his hold of her hands to pull her forward in a tight embrace, he could not say whether it was for her comfort or rather his own. The image of the snare around her slender neck still burned in his mind and for the first time he wondered if Sebille’s high collar might indeed be something more than a simple protection in battle. He also could not shake off the rising feeling of guilt. What had been done to her had been done by the same men and women that he had lived with, laughed with, fought aside – the same people he had considered his friends, his pack even. His perspective on the Lone Wolfs had only changed late in their adventures. Right until the end he had believed – wanted to believe – he could sway Roost in giving up on the contract that ordered him to capture and kill the godwoken. Soon the guilt was supported by brightly burning anger.

The way they were seated, on the level planks of the ship, the difference in heights let Sebille slid her arms free from under his and wrap them around his shoulders and neck in turn. She clutched him tightly, her cheek resting against his temple, her warm breath cresting his ear, and soon she succeeded to breath his heavy thoughts away. Most of his self-constraint slipped then and unable to stop himself, he tilted his face up and let his lips brush the side of her jaw. Her breath hitched, a shiver ran through her frame and fingers wove into his hair, brushing gently over the nape of his neck, extracting an involuntary gasp. This close, his nostrils filled with her brisk scent of pine trees in the snow, ever fresh and cool and strangely homely at the same time. It had been the first thing he had truly noticed on her in Fort Joy, despite the tip of the needle that had pressed against his neck. It had stood out in stark contrast to their bleak surroundings baking in the sun.

“Wait, there is more I have to tell you.” Sebille chuckled beneath her words and though she seemed as reluctant as Ifan to let go, she slid out of the embrace and positioned herself in front of him again. She looked determined to go on. Cross-legged they faced each other, knees touching, hands still interwoven.

“You will accuse me of spoiling the mood, but...” Spoiling the mood that had only just lifted? No, he certainly did not crave another shift in atmosphere. Again, though, her eyes caught his, drew his focus of attention, until she seemed satisfied he would hear her out. Ifan concentrated on the slight smile, playing around her lips despite her warning.

“Or better, to ask of you.” Sebille’s gaze softened and so did her voice. “My dear, sweet Ifan, I have grown to trust you more then anyone, since …” She hesitated briefly, her fingers distractedly toying with his, then she shook her head in conclusion: “No, anyone!”

Ifan’s ears were tingling from the sudden tenderness in Sebille’s address. When finally his own words came out huskily, they rasped almost harshly against his eardrums, the disbelief plainly audible. “With what did I earn this trust?”

Her answer was a slightly irritated shake of her dark head, the movement making her pony-tail whip from side to side. But eventually she loosened a hand and brought it up to his cheek. It wavered shortly before the touch, as if waiting for his permission to enter his space. “You earned it just by being you!” Her fingertips dipped into his beard and wandered along his jawline. “And I need you to do something for me. Will you?”

She did not wait for his reply, though. Instead her lips parted and forth streamed a tune, enticing in its simplicity, darkly enchanting, with gripping intensity. It had no words and it needed none. It was painfully beautiful as it sang of the ease of letting go, of falling, and of the peace coming with surrender. How ever pre-occupied Ifan had been with his own thoughts and feelings, he soon could no longer tell what his worries had been. Just in time before the song brought him to lose focus completely, his instinct of self-preservation kicked in, adrenaline suddenly pumping through his veins and all sense of peace fled from his body. Pulling back forcefully he felt simultaneously relieved and depraved. He struggled a while with these contesting emotions, until he beheld Sebille watching him. She had stopped singing and her closed lips were now set in a desolate, knowing smile. Fully aware of the song’s effects, she had retracted her hand from his face and even opened her other, allowing him to withdraw, should he wish so. In an attempt to put her mind at ease, he rejected the offer, his larger hand covering hers, warm and reassuringly.

“It is my scar song,” she finally explained, infinitely sad. “The mere memory of this melody … it haunts me. Sometimes, I hear it in my dreams and I fear it could be real. I fear, that I will never wake again. With that oh so simple tune the Master extinguishes my will. When he sings it, I will return to his service and into slavery.” The finality with which she spoke those words allowed no doubt as to their truth. Neither did the desperation seeping out of her rigid posture or the tint of sarcasm with which she tried to hide it all. “Unless,” and here a glimmer of hope, an almost imperceptible spark of light returned to her eyes, “unless you oppose his song with your voice. Unless you break his spell by enchanting me in turn.”

Ifan, hardly ever a man of many words – even though he could make use of them eloquently, if need be – only settled for a determined “How?” Incredulously, this drew a soft chuckle from Sebille.

“Why, because you already have enchanted me. Your hold over me is already greater than the Master’s can ever be.” Reading his mind further, she continued in an almost amused, then imploring voice: “So don’t fret – your singing must not be skilful, just… just I would hope for it to come from your heart. Will you sing?” 

Ifan felt the eternity it took him to fully process her words painfully himself, their meaning and import only sinking in at this moment. Somewhere deep within him a warm sensation sprang amidst the maelstrom of anger, guilt, and confusion. Closing his eyes he tried to track it and keep hold of it, and when finally he sensed its existence secure, he carefully extracted it from the other sentiments, until it was able to unfold, bloom, and spread through his body, slowly exchanging anxiety with joy.

“That I can promise, singing from my heart, that is.”

Against his will he found himself laughing, his imagination providing examples of his own singing quite unbidden. Surely he could intimidate the Master with a voice trained in drunkenly slurred tavern songs and brawled war hymns. Possibly, the last option might even succeed. But actually, while his laughter grew into a fit, he only feared that his sudden mirth might be a cause of offence to Sebille. He new the source of his outburst, of course. Her opening up to him, this confiding in him of the woman he could safely state he had come to respect and adore beyond what he was wont to experience, joined with the realisation of those feelings, had broken a dam within him. He would have hoped his emotions would find another way of airing, but for that it seemed too late.

“I… Sebille, I apologise, I...”

Lips crushed to his. They were smiling broadly and for a moment the kiss was made of two wide smiles pressed against each other. Then slender and delicate but determined fingers wove into the hair at the back of his head, drawing them closer together, the occasional pull on strands of hair sending jolts down his spine. His laughter subsided, as the kiss became more urgent and died fully when a teasing tongue used the opportunity to slid past his lips and breach his teeth. While his mind was locked in shock, his hands developed a life on their own. They flew to Sebille’s waist and drew her into his lap with a powerful tug. Still grinning into the kiss, Sebille adjusted her head smoothly, tilting it downwards in order to not break the contact of their lips. She might smell of winter, but she tasted of late summer, his dazed mind supplied unhelpfully but in admirable honesty. She tasted of black berries, sour-and-sweet. And truly, what else should she taste of? And with that last clear thought the kiss tipped him over an edge and had him falling.

Sebille withdrew first, desperately gasping for air, but beneath his hands he could feel her shaking with surpressed laughter. Her catlike eyes were glowing fiercely in the dark. “I say, we should do this more often!” she exclaimed breathlessly, radiating bliss. Her hands drifted from his hair to his face, cupping his cheeks tenderly once again and when the fierceness withdrew from her eyes, affection remained.


	13. The Master, the Queen, and the Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A song for freedom, a fight for life, a dance of joy

The Master, the Queen, and the Knight

Searing pain shot through the intricate webbing of the scar on her cheek, leaving little in her mind behind but the image of glowing red lines burning their way through her flesh and her skull and finally laying waste to her thoughts and her last strands of free will. Only ashes would remain. Ashes of Sebille who would no longer know herself. The name would leave her first and while she would desperately struggle to remember, to whom that body belonged that she found herself in, a soft spoken and gentle voice would slowly steal away all other memories. One by one they would burst into flames, leaving behind a dark emptiness that the voice would slowly seek to fill. And in the end, she would recognize the voice as her true self. It would tell her to be calm, not to fret, and that all would be alright if only she listened. It would promise that the pain would end as soon as she accepted this one and only truth.

“You remember now, do you not? Remember, Sebille, you belong to me. All that you are is only through me,” the voice sang and she was close, oh so close, to believe it once again. But not yet, not completely. There was something wrong. She only had to find the fault. She had to concentrate.

“Come now, return to me. I will care for you. You do not want to break my heart.” The singing continued audibly while all the while unspoken orders forced her head to bend and her knees to give in. “What has passed is not real, but I am. Trust me.” Simple words forced a conviction upon her she did not feel. No more, no longer, because…

“I – will – not!” she pressed through gritted teeth, each word a struggle for breath and focus. Through the raging flames that were her thoughts, her own voice, quivering and faint, pleaded with someone she could not see nor consciously remember. Someone, though she had no name, she trusted more than the honeyed voice that promised liberation – but would deliver the opposite, she suddenly realised, her head snapping up and her eyes struggling to see.

“Sing, sing, sing! Oh please, will you not sing?” 

With great effort she finally turned her head and became aware – again, as she should have known it to be there before – of a dark shape just at the border of her sight, almost hidden by tears. Somewhere deep down there was enough of herself left – enough Sebille left – to fight for every miniscule movement that brought her back to her feed. The pain increased, white hot, threatening to overpower her completely while two wills battled for domination over her self. But she was losing, she knew. This fight she could not win, unless…

Unless, he sang for her.  
And sing he did.  
The melody did not register in her ears through the thrumming of her own blood, but it reached her. Over the silken tones that quenched her thoughts, others, rougher and darker, reverberated within her very core. And what she could not do on her own these tones succeeded in. Rough and dark they might be, but they rang true. – Truer than velvet, truer than silk, truer than honey. And they kindled her own fire within her. Flames battled flames and blinding light sizzled through every cell of her body, until she felt certain her skin had become translucent and she was standing in between the two men who held the power to be masters over her heart and soul – a torch in the darkest of nights. When finally one blaze smouldered the other, she could not at once tell which had been victorious. Still rooted to the spot she struggled to answer this one important question, the question of all questions, as to which song had dominated the other. 

Being able to ask questions provided her with the answers she needed, though. Surprisingly fast after the raging battle within her did she find a state of calm: As if her mind had only waited for the inner turmoil to end before setting into motion a plan, deliberated over and decided upon long ago.

“Your song ends here, Master mine,” she hissed, teeth no longer gritted but bared in a vicious snarl. “Mine only just begins.” Then the needle struck. 

\---

“Ifan!” Sebille’s jubilant voice rang up to him on his perch on one of the ruinous stone pillars encircling the Master’s encampment. She called out to him, wishing him to join them – join her! - in celebrating, not so much with words but rather with the inviting clarity in her voice. It almost toppled in joy, constantly shifting between calling for her companions, joyous singing, and giddy laughter. He could see her sliding an arm around Lohse’s waist and pressing in on the other woman, momentarily throwing both of them off balance, and just before they both toppled to the ground, she sidestepped, steadied them both and drew Lohse close again in a graceful pirouette.

Ifan smiled despite the pain and the growing cold. If only he could sit here and watch her be this happy forever.  
He could not, though. If he did not do something quick, the time he had for watching would be short indeed. Already he felt his head starting to swim.

It had been an eerie fight. The suspense at its beginning had, truth be told, been enough for him to not wish for it to increase. Unfortunately, it had. Out of the shadows the Shadow Prince’s assassins had stepped, struck, and withdrawn again. From there on it had been difficult to track the movement of most of the fighters, leaving Lohse, Fane and himself in very vulnerable positions. Sebille’s skills had, however, proven superior to those of their opponents. Where one reappeared she had only been a short step behind, pinning their foes to the ground, marking them for her friends to see, hindering them to step back into invisibility. Only when finally she had succeeded to wear down their magical armour sufficiently had the other three dared to leave the relatively safe position they had taken back to back and joined the fight. Lohse had tasked herself to take down those Sebille had more or less immobilised and Fane and Ifan had found themselves high spots from which to make sure, none would escape. Sebille had turned to the Master.  
Four they had killed, one had slipped past their guards.  
The prickling sensation on his nape had been all the warning he got, before a blade out of nowhere had sunk into his left thigh, cutting it open almost from hip to knee. He had reacted on instinct, bringing his crossbow up and between himself and his attacker and pulling the trigger. The dart's momentum had forced the assassin to stagger back, giving Ifan the space to yank the knife from his leg and kill the lizard with her own weapon.  
The same weapon he was now using to cut two long strips of cloth from the lizard’s tunic – one broad, one thin. The broader strip he wound around the wound, the thinner one was placed just above the wound and wrought tight. He grunted in pain and blinked at the black spots that began dancing before his eyes. Next he removed a dart from its quiver, pushed it through the thinner loop and started to turn, binding of the blood vessels. This time, the black spots would not be blinked away.

There was sudden and blurry movement at the periphery of his vision. A blueish light enwrought with shadows enveloped the dead lizard’s body from which just moments ago he had pilfered the strips of cloth. It was replaced with another body, even longer dead but paradoxically exceedingly more vital.

“I was wondering what kept you hiding up here when joy is overflowing down there,” Fane’s smooth and sophisticated voice not so much breached but rather slithered through the rising clouds around Ifan’s thoughts. Nonetheless it wrapped around his attention determinedly, not letting go. “But the question has become rather rhetorical in the light of things. Do not strain yourself with an answer.” Voice frowning, the Undead moved in on Ifan with a quick step, then knelt beside him and removed the makeshift bandage. Though quite breathless, Fane managed a pointed hiss – the only give-away of his assessment of the wound. “One cannot help but wonder, why Lohse and Sebille bother to keep us around, can one? They perform very well on their own.” His tone remained light, almost joking, but his bony fingertips, softly gliding and probing along the margins of the wound, betrayed some urgency. Then his fingers curled around the remnants of the trouser leg and ripped it apart completely, before pressing firmly on the wound. Ifan watched the familiar blue light appear between spread digits and seep into the wound, tingling at first, then burning. He pressed his lips together focussing on Fane’s voice rather than on the pain. Then his leg tuned numb.  
“I at least am useful for patching up cuts and scrapes after fights. – And all those burns, since a real fight apparently must cause the surroundings to incinerate even in the strongest downpour. Also I have some uses illuminating the way in dark starless nights,” Fane continued his mindless rambling. “What, I wonder, are your strengths?” Since an answer seemed not to be requested, Ifan gave none, but for the moment settled for feeling very grateful as he perceived the flow of his own blood to thicken and finally stop. “If I were forced to venture a guess, I would assume them to be connected to the combination of a beating heart and the resulting warm lips.” Fane shrugged without removing his hands. “However, that would only account for Sebille...”  
“I do have my qualities, my friend!” With something like warmth returning to his body, Ifan could no longer keep silent while his worth was being questioned, however well-intentioned. “I have proven, for instance, a very potent singer.”  
“Yes, yes, I suspect so,” Fane replied almost dismissively, but was not entirely able to suppress a slight chuckle. With a final surge of light he closed the wound and rocked back on his heels. For a moment he seemed to consider his own handiwork. “It will hold for the time being. Do not strain the new tissue too much and see me again later.” His blood covered right hand went to a pouch on his belt and came back holding a small vial filled with red liquid. “Drink this,” he ordered, pulling the stopper and pressing the vial into Ifan’s slightly trembling hands, “it will return some of your strength, though we should all find some rest soon. And then get down there!” He nodded towards the dancing pair some distance below. Time must have have passed quicker for them, Ifan considered, for Sebille and Lohse to still be dancing without questioning the whereabouts of the two men.  
“We would not want to spoil Sebille’s special day – not by your death nor by your delay.” Standing up, the Undead offered Ifan his hands and pulled him to his feet. Ifan used the time it took for his vision to settle and the world to stop spinning to smirk in Fane’s general direction. But his words were sincere: “Once again, Fane, thank you!” He clasped his hands around the other man’s bony arms and squeezed.  
“Very well. Just do not be your usual hasty self and jump. Use the ladder!” 

\---

The two women were still dancing, not very gracefully but with lots of vigour, and laughing merrily when Ifan approached them with necessarily slow and measured steps, even though he felt like nothing more but breaking into a run. His smile broadened upon getting closer as the women’s contagious exuberance radiated towards him and took hold. He noticed Lohse looking thoroughly dishevelled and also a little dizzy, the numerous pirouettes taking their toll. Weird, he thought, since her reputation described her as not only an apt but also a practised dancer. One look at Sebille though told him that in her current state of ecstasy the best human constitution would be utterly insufficient to keep up. Had he envied Lohse the dance before, Ifan was suddenly rather content with not being the first to share in Sebille’s celebration. He was neither in his best shape nor as young as Lohse. 

Sebille must have sensed his approach, as she forced Lohse in another stumbling turn in order to face him. When their eyes locked, Ifan found his own wide smile mirrored in Sebille’s delicate features. Her amber eyes were shining with a light of their own. Grinning inwardly he concluded that should that light stay, Fane was down one of his listed uses. The nights would be bright from now on. For a moment, they just stood there, gazing at each other.  
When Sebille finally released Lohse from her arms, the other woman took a few staggering steps before slumping onto a silken seat cushion in front of the Shadow Prince’s tent with an exaggerated huff. Otherwise she did not react to being utterly ignored by Ifan and Sebille and only slid sideways a little to make room for Fane on the cushion, when he joined her. 

Sebille broke the spell first. With an undefined exclamation she bounded towards him, throwing her arms around his neck as soon as they touched, bringing herself flush against him. One hand moved to his front again, and her index finger hooked eagerly under his chin to tilt his head up. Her fingers were radiating warmth as was the rest of her usually so cool body: as if slavery had taken some of her vitality and it was now returned to her with freedom. He could only press her closer, basking in her new found vitality.  
“No more Masters!” she breathed almost below his hearing. He only nodded and for a while all their movement ceased as the impact of her words sank fully in.  
“Only the Queen of the World,” Ifan finally said, tilting his head back further so he could look at her face fully. His words made Sebille laugh. It was a good laugh: unchecked, free, and brimming with happiness. Ifan found he loved it even more than her victorious one. He felt disappointment rise in his chest, when it suddenly ended, but was soon enough conciliated by soft and warm lips upon his.  
“And her knight in somewhat battered armour,” Sebille agreed, snickering giddily into the kiss.


	14. A Temple...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was wondering how to portray the riddle of the Temple of the Moon and ended up writing little ficlets for each of the seven altars. Some are longer, some shorter. There is no obvious order to them. Here are the first two. Five to go.
> 
> Altars to Rhalic and Zorl-Stissa

**Part 1: Altar to Rhalic**

“Humans are not exactly creative in hiding their greatest sanctuary, are they now?”

They stood in the ruins of the once great Temple of Rhalic, now covered in moss, broken by roots, strangled in vines, and overgrown by fern. Also it was now splattered in blood and decorated morbidly with the occasional corps of Black Ring fighters. Fane eyed their surroundings doubtfully.

“Why would we have to be? Is not Rhalic the strongest god of the Seven? Are not humans the strongest race?” Despite her words, Lohse did not seem particularly interested in the ancient altar at the center of the stone dais, over which cracked surface Ifan was currently running his fingertips.

“I would suspect Vrogir and the orcs to disagree with your assessment,” Sebille replied, sporting a very one-sided smile. “Had they not disappeared, that is. And did we not agree to not call them gods anymore?” Her remark earned her a smoldering glance from one of the surviving paladins.

“I would also like to suggest a more precise wording,” Fane interposed, ignoring Sebille’s later remark. “Rhalic was the most _powerful_ of the renegade lords and humans are the most _numerous_ race.” His dark eye-sockets settled on Lohse with a meaningful look. “You are like insects, really. Tiny and very annoying, but simply not to get rid of.”

Befitting to his words, Ifan hastily withdrew his hands with an angry hiss, then slapped hard back down on the altar. “Ants,” he cursed before kneeling on the ground and bowing his head. He fell silent.

“But you serve a purpose, I assume,” Fane continued, absolutely unperturbed by this strange co-incident, “and you are indeed also quite right, those are perfectly good reasons to not hide one’s sanctuary.”

“Well, he is not so powerful anymore,” Ifan surmised his latest encounter with the god whose champion he was supposed to be while he got back on his feed. “Rather, he seems to have reached the end of his immortality. So, one down, seven to go – and we are running out of time.” 

\---

**Part 2: Altar to Zorl-Stissa**

“Well, that was easy enough.” Fane looked around him, pleased. No, no more hidden enemies suddenly jumping upon them, no hitherto unseen traps snapping shut. And the lizards were so full of themselves, why exactly? They had taught the Master and his shadow minions the lesson that pride goes before the fall.

“You think so, yes?” The Undead had his back turned to him, so Ifan tried to spear his skull with his stare. “Of course you do. You have no hair that could get singed.”

He had been trying to put out the sparks nesting in his clothes for some while now. With little success. They kept setting him aflame. He thought he could still hear Zorl-Stissa’s malicious laughter.

“Fane, did you only patch me up moments ago to now watch me burn or would you care to help?”

“What? - Oh, you mean… You can‘t yourself? Well, of course.” Ifan found himself caught in a scrutinising gaze. While he waited, his sleeve caught fire – again. Sebille moved in to put him out – again.

“Oh, well, wait, see here!”  
Skeletal fingers reached for the sky with an opening gesture. And the sky opened.

“Thank you, Fane. You are such a dear!” Ifan growled. They had been insufferably hot before, due to the vicinity of the volcano. Now they were soaking wet and only slightly less hot. He decided to leave, before they were cooked.

“I know! - You are welcome.”


	15. … a Day…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Altars to Amadia, Duna, and Vrogir

**Part 3: Altar to Amadia**

„No, wait! I will stop here. This is high – I mean, far enough!”

Ifan’s voice rang up to his three companions who were already several feet up on the next wall, their only support the long vines and the rock beneath their feet. Sebille, the most sure footed and handed when it came to climbing in general and with only naturally grown assistance more specifically, had already swung herself over the crest of the next rock and was reaching down for Fane to help him up. She found it just a tiny bit unsettling that the solid enough rocks they were climbing inexplicably hovered in thin air without visible support, but she would not say so. Fane, on the other hand, was in bliss and kept chattering happily about the wonders of magic. Even now, literally hanging between heaven and hell, he found the breath to talk about perfection. Ah well, Sebille thought, if he truly had to breathe, he would definitely shut up.  
Frowning at her own thoughts, she looked past Fane and Lohse down to where Ifan was still standing. One of his hands was searching for support in the sheer wall and he was clearly trying not to look back, or rather down, to where they had come from. She was about to shout something back, when Lohse let go of her hold of the vines and, in clear disregard to the height and narrowness of the ledge beneath her, dropped down next to Ifan. Obvious to Sebille alone, her foolhardiness was also in total disregard to Ifan’s feelings. The man’s face turned white as the clouds above them and he staggered back until his back was to the wall. 

“You alright, chief?”

Lohse sounded only partly concerned. They all new about Ifan’s, well, difficulties with heights. Sebille thought, she could actually hear the other woman smirk. But she still reached out to lay a comforting hand on Ifan’s shoulder, eliciting an embarrassed groan.

“No – yes, yes! I am alright, Lohse.” Sebille could see him try to dismiss Lohse with the strained wave of a hand. “I will just wait here and … make sure no one follows you. You just… go ahead!”

\--- 

Fane felt the caveats of being Undead painfully in this moment. For instance was he unable to squint angrily at Lohse the way he would have liked to. “Really, this is my goddess after all. I should be the one to continue!” he tried to convince her with reason as intimidation clearly failed. To his dismay, he was met with reason for once superior to his own.

“But your goddess has not seen fit to make you fireproof and even lacking eyes you must see the Fire Guardian, well, guarding the way into the temple. So this is my call. And you cannot jump far enough to follow me, so Sebille will accompany me.”  
The gap between this floating rock (Lohse’s naming, of course) and the next was indeed too wide for Fane’s liking as well as his athletics. And the rest of her words were just as true. Lohse’s fiery hair was positively crackling with energy after their first encounter with Amadia, while Sebille and he shimmered slightly blue from the force-field deflecting water. But this indication that the Fire Guardians had more fluid companions later on in the temple did not help his current case.

“Since when have we gone back to actually calling them gods and goddesses? I thought we had agreed they were renegade lords.” Sebille’s question broke his train of thought and Lohse jumped to this support of her one argument gladly.

„True enough! So, Fane, since this is not the temple of a goddess, what do you care who reaches the altar first?”

\--- 

“You bastard!” Sebilles furious screech rang painfully in Lohse’s ears. One moment the Elf had been right at her side, the next she was replaced by a somberly dressed skeleton. Fane looked very smug, though how he conveyed the emotion, Lohse could still not say. Maybe it was in the way he rubbed his gloved hands together.

“Well, hi there, bone boy!” Lohse winked and gave him a comradely cuff in the ribs. “You do remember that Sebille hates being tossed around like this, right?”

“Care to remember, that if I were not so good at ‘tossing her around’, as you say, she would no longer be alive? I cannot consider every single one of her distastes. She has too many.”

Lohse laughed.

“Well, smart move, anyway! And rather good you are currently out of her reach and more or less needle-proof, too.”

\--- 

Lohse and Fane had made it through the “floating rocks’ labyrinth” only to find that Sebille had left without them. They found her sitting next to Ifan, still sulking, while the man concentrated on her face in order to look somewhere that was not below. Lohse grinned. When had the two of them become so adorable? 

“Listen up, all, I made a song of our last adventure. Can’t sing it yet, the lodger still disapproves, but I can recite:

_Four almighty godwoken were climbing up a tree,_  
_Since one is not too fond of heights,_  
_The top reached only three._ ”

 

**Part 4: Altar to Duna**

“Why must I always be the dwarf?” Fane complained.

“Simply, my friend, because it is your mask!” Ifan rejected the mask Fane offered to him and pushed it back towards the Undead. 

“It is not fair. The one temple where you see me as useful is the one with the least attraction to me.” Keeping on fussing, Fane nevertheless donned the mask. A stocky and, even though they had seen this form quite often now, still surprisingly young faced dwarf shot Ifan a murderous glance. The man remained unperturbed. 

„Had Amadia cared to only let whining skeletons enter her temple, you would have been our go-to person number one.“

Stomping off, they could just barely here him mutter: “So it is my fault now, that Amadia is not a racist?” 

 

**Part 5: Altar to Vrogir**

“Fane, do you truly prefer Vrogir to Duna?” Wonder lay in Sebille’s voice, but it was hardly sufficient cover for the deep concern beneath. Kneeling on the wet floor she held Ifan’s head cradled in her lap, her right hand carefully stroking a tangled lock of hair from his brow. His skin felt cool to the touch but it was nonetheless covered in a thin film of sweat. Her trepidation and her concern for his well-being had been growing ever since the Altar to Zorl-Stissa had set him on fire and she had found herself confirmed when his head had sunk ever deeper in his kneeling position in front of Vrogir’s altar. When his whole body had eventually sacked and slumped forward, she had just been in time to catch him. 

Fane’s hands hovered closely over Ifan’s trembling body, sliding up and down in their attempt to find the source of his indisposition.

“I understand not. Why would I prefer one to the other?”

“Well, you said that Duna’s temple attracted you the least.” Sebille was really only speaking to divert her thoughts from the rising anger within her. She feared that should she fail, she would find a way to flood the temple anew. 

The skull shook in slight irritation, but since they had long known slight irritation to be Fane’s main mindset, Sebille did not care much.  
“I found the source of the poison, or venom really,” Fane gave as a none-answer. His fingers had gently wrapped around Ifan’s limp right hand and raising it he showed her the small bite marks in its palm. Not saying anything else, he set to extract the venom and heal the Human. Sebille kept quite and instead of bothering Fane used Lohse’s careful search of the Temple as distraction.  
Finally, Ifan stirred in her lap and a low moan escaped his lips. A quick look ascertained her that the sweat was drying on his skin and he was recovering quickly.

“I feel for both naught but disdain,” Fane finally resumed the former subject. The Undead held a water bottle out to her and she took it with a grateful smile, unstopped it, and put it gently to Ifan’s lips.  
“But truly, his temple is much more exciting. The traps are more intricate – which I would never have assumed given the Dwarfs proverbial skill in mechanics – getting here was much harder and,” he paused for emphasis, “we even solved the riddle of the Orcs’ disappearance!” He made a happy clicking sound as if he still had a tongue to do it with.

“Oh yes,” Ifan grunted, while carefully getting into an upright position with Sebille’s steady hands as support. He caught one and squeezed it tightly. “That is a relief. No more Orcs. But this truly is such a boring place. No fights and adventures to be had anywhere.” His sarcasm was betrayed by his broad smile. 

“Let us hope, they find their happiness,” Sebille added, “and pester another people.” 

The three of them nodded at each other in uncommon agreement.


	16. ...keeps the Void away!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Altars to Xantezza and Tir-Cendelius

**Part 6: Xantezza**

The ruckus was tremendous. A constant clicking and whirring, metal screeching upon metal, huffs and puffs from the mysterious machines, steam being let out with shrill whistling sounds. Sebille clapped her hands over her ears, her face contorted with physical as well as mental pain. She was positive, she could feel her bones rattling. About to turn on her heels and simply leave the others to sort this out without her, she was stopped by Fane clasping his fingers around her wrist and pulling her right hand from her ear. She scowled at him but was met with a level gaze that taught her about the futility to argue.

“This being an imp world, I am certain we will have to use our combined facilities to solve the riddle that leads towards Xantezza’s shrine,” he explained and succeeded in maintaining his lecturing tone while having to shout. “Naturally, I would be exceedingly appreciative about your help whenever more … physical talents are in need.”

Ignoring the three angry stares, he walked off briskly – or rather meant to. All his straining only resulted in slightly more than a crawling pace, much to his indignation and the others’ amusement. “You mean, like for walking?” Ifan teased, all but appeased. The air thus cleared from hard feelings, if not tension, they all set to the tedious and very slow task of finding clues as to how to proceed.

\---

“I think this device has it wrong there!” Ifan was standing in front of the unfathomable kettle-like machine which Lohse had dubbed the “asking-machine”. None of them understood what its purpose was, though Fane was loath to admit it. It kept repeating love would not be the answer. Sebille’s questioning look, accompanied by an irritated frown only widened the man’s grin to one flashing teeth. “Love is the answer after all!” he explained happily and altogether untouched by the exasperation on Lohse’s face. He was rewarded by an uncharacteristic but oh so endearing flush on Sebille’s cheeks.

“I have always wanted to see an imp pocket universe!” Fane, oblivious to the romantic moment, brought them all back to their location. “It is indeed wondrous to behold and fascinating!”

“And slow!” Sebille forced herself to grumble a little, not allowing the past moment to fully reconcile her with the clamour and the restriction to her movement. All they had been succeeding in so far, was to figure out that some of the switches immersed into the floor required greater weights to be kept down than others. Fane seemed happy though. He was literally glowing with glee. There even was a faint shimmer to the jewel in his forehead, she imagined.

“If that lever over there moves this door… No, it does not. Not on its own. But these here...” The Undead stepped on another small pedestal in the ground. A clicking sound could be heard, then the whirling of small gear-wheels.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, right index finger raised to his temple. “This mind is not easily fooled. Lohse, we need your strength. That box over there – yes, that is the one – must be placed were I am standing.”

Sebille turned around. The more excited Fane got, the more bored she found herself. Her dislike for riddles was only surpassed by her frustration in being unable to solve them. And she positively hated to not be able to move freely. When Lohse could be heard grunting from the strain to move one of the heavy iron-wrought boxes and Fane was too immersed in solving the problem before him, she sneaked off. Ifan noticed. Of course he did. She winked at him, then tried to convey her mischievous thoughts with a crooked half-smile, only to be met in turn by an all too understanding warm glance and a sanctioning grin. Some of the tension seeped out of her then. He would do that to her – calm her without even touching or talking – and she found, she did not mind the manipulation. Humming a little tune happily she sauntered back to where they had come from.

\---

A short while but felt eternity later she had balanced over pipes, found a treasure, stopped the pocked world from exploding, and talked to a not-goddess she rather liked. Maybe, she should have been born an imp. Talking to Xantezza had actually been … fun. So much fun indeed, that she met Fane’s fury with an impish smile.

„I was close! I almost had it. Could you not, just once, wait and…”

Suddenly aware of the silence he was shouting into, Fane stopped short. His words turned into an exasperated snort.

“Oh no, let me see whether my superior mind is able to deduct your upcoming answer. – It is ‘That’s called pragmatism!’ Correct?”

The impish smile became an impish giggle, followed by a clap to his shoulder that was meant to tell him that he was correct indeed.

 

 

**Part 7: Altar to Tir-Cendelius**

“Seven, right? We are done with this?”

Ifan slumped to the ground next to the altar, not minding the stools close by, and buried his head in his hands. Two of his three companions looked at him and then at each other with not just a little worry. The third still stood, well, very still.

“Ifan?”

“What? No, don’t mind me. I have been burned and poisoned, violently sick, and now a crow tried to take my eye out. I am tired and my body hurts.”

His body did not hurt alone, but he would not show them that. Not while Sebille stood in the periphery of his vision, looking into nothingness, rigid and tall as if she had already rooted herself to this place. How had that happened? How had she given up the freedom she had sought all her life in just a single, far too short moment? And how had he actually supported her in agreeing to become the next Mother Tree? Had he really believed it to be the right course or had he simply exchanged his guilt over the death fog for the guilt he now felt towards Sebille? He was unable to discern whether it proved his love that he was willing to let her go or whether he had betrayed her faith in doing so. Sebille did not look too sure of this either.

\---

“I have another verse!” Lohse could not stand this silence a moment longer. It made her skin crawl. Feeling very similar to what she assumed to be the sensation of leaping off a cliff, she lapsed into a reckless presentation of another poem.

__

_„Four almighty godwoken met the Mother Tree_   


__

_One took root and meant to stay_   


__

_So off walked only three.”_   


“You are running out of rhymes.” Fane’s calm statement was far less of a reaction she had expected and indeed hoped for. Ifan’s head did not even lift from his hands. And the silence ensued.  
Until a raspy voice broke through silence and dark thoughts alike.

__

_“Three almighty godwoken found it easy to agree_

__

_That their fourth companion was an ass_   


__

_So they left behind the rhyming lass.”_   


They found Sebille staring at each of them in turn, ending her retaliatory poem with a soft chuckle.

“What, I used to like poetry,” she answered the incredulous looks before completely shooing them out of their stupour. “And yes, we are done with this. Let’s find this Academy. Divinity awaits!”


	17. Götterdämmerung - Two Drabbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting: The Arena of the One, quest for Divinity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Götterdämmerung/Twilight of the Gods” refers to the 4th part of Wagner’s opera “Der Ring des Nibelungen/The Ring of the Nibelung”, loosely based on the Norse sagas, here especially Ragnarök.

**Drabble 1**

“You will run,” Ifan said, hands on her arms. “I will watch your back and you will run.” Sebille’s eyes went wide. So many implications.  
“There is no one as fast as you,” he explained. “Neither Lohse, nor Fane, nor Alexandar, nor any of the ghosts.”  
She swallowed, blinked – searching for words to say.  
“There is no one I trust as I trust you,” he continued and her bafflement was replaced by warmth.  
“But,” she objected, “we all vowed to follow you!”  
“There is no one I trust but you,” he corrected himself.

So she ran. But Dallis was faster.

\----

**Drabble 2**

They fought their gods as much as their surprise.  
Surprise that the bodiless voices took form: shadowy mirror-images of the gods and themselves.  
Surprise that Rhalic, all opportunist, placed his bet on both Humans after all.

They battled their gods as much as themselves. But:  
Lohse remained herself – blue eyes, not black.  
Fane chose the future over the past.  
Ifan found he could trust them all.

Wounds were perceived as much as mended as fighting back to back the unity of the pack was reformed.  
Through fire and doubt they found the beacon. There was still hope. Just what for?


	18. Depression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Hall of Echoes 
> 
> Part 1 of ?  
> Part 2: Intemperance (coming soon)

“Would you stay with me tonight?”

The solemn question hang in the air between them, each word filled with a weight she had not intended. Lohse watched, while her own question slowly sank to the planks beneath her feet, forming a puddle for but an instance. Then the sentence structure dissolved into single words, then syllables, and finally all of it trickled into the cracks in the wood. Briefly, she wondered whether the living wood of the Lady Vengeance could feel the chill in her words, fed by the chill in her soul. Or maybe someone below deck would now turn around hastily, sure to be followed by ghosts. They were in the Hall of Echoes, after all. Lohse shuddered in sympathy, completely forgetting that initially it had been herself seeking and asking for the same thing.  
Fighting and killing a god she had not even realised had taken a hold within her as much as in Ifan had been an unsettling experience. Watching her best friends fighting and killing their gods beside her, had not helped either. Not knowing were the other presence within her had gone during the fight had been, however, by far the scariest sensation. She could barely locate it now: It was still skulking the shadows of her mind, but had it once been ready to swallow her whole whenever it chose to – a cat toying with its game – it was remote now, almost weak. She did not trust it. 

Since not even her imagination could distract itself by looking at the tips of her boots for very long, Lohse finally dared to raise her eyes, focussing on the remaining friend who stood before her. The other two had left a while ago and the initial feeling of forlornness had since then grown into the sharp sting of betrayal. She understood their need for intimacy – the more so as she felt it so keenly herself. But since she was able to emphasise with them, could she not ask or even expect the same in return? What was worse, her own understanding conflicted with her emotions in a way that made her feel like a child outside its parents’ bedroom door: in the need for comfort but afraid to enter the room.

“I would not feel it the way you would, Lohse.” The answering words were surprisingly warm considering they came from a dead body. They certainly sounded much warmer than her own. She was still pondering the difference between being and feeling alive, when the voice spoke on and its words registered.

“But I am willing, if it means a comfort to you.”

The shock finally made it past her desolation. Drawing a deep breath at being misunderstood so blatantly, she stared at Fane.

“No, I… No, Fane, I…” She came to a stuttering halt, still gaping.  
“I did not mean it so,” she finally finished lamely, since a more elaborate explanation had eluded her. “Not like them,” she added, trying to convey her meaning with a cursory gesture towards the hatch where Sebille and Ifan had vanished.

Fane’s scrutinising gaze held her now. He had crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked at her intently. At least, his head did not swerve, so she guessed the intention. 

“You are not asking me for sexual intercourse, you mean.” 

Heat flooded her body, flushed her cheeks, and formed a stark contrast to the chill she had felt only moments before. Despite her embarrassment, she could not say that it was totally unwelcome.  
“Yes… No, I mean… I…” Lohse huffed in frustration. “I should not feel so embarrassed by the issue nor should I have such trouble to find the right words. I am a bard, by the Sev…” 

The anger about that slip made her feel even warmer. That was good. She also sensed her eyes darkening. That was a relief. _“Bad! It’s bad!”_ No, the demon could not be trusted.

Fane thought so too, apparently, since he loosened his arms and gave up on his composure – or really just the façade of it. 

“Peace, Lohse!” His warm voice still betrayed his non-vital condition. When had he ever sounded so alive? Lohse could only remember the same display of vitality whenever his anger flared – usually in connection with Sebille being, well, herself. 

“I understand you perfectly. I only felt you were in need of a distraction.” She could hear a slight doubt creep into his voice. “Did I misinterpret the situation?” he asked, apparently unsure of his assessment of human behaviour and the adequacy of his reaction to it. Thus Lohse was utterly unprepared when he decided to stay with his assessment after all, stepped forwards and enclosed her in a bony but sincere embrace. – Oh, but it felt good. It was cold, yes, or rather, not warm. Again though, there was a decided difference between being warm and the ability to convey warmth, because she was definitely comforted by the gesture. Instinctively she leaned into the embrace, her forehead now resting on Fane’s shoulder, and then her arms slipped around his waist, hugging him in turn.

“No,” she mumbled into the fabric of his shirt, “your interpretation was impeccable.”

Obviously, with her head where it was resting, she could not see his approximation of a smile – usually a short shrug with the shoulders and a small tilt of his head. But this shrug gave him away and his embrace tightened. 

“Good!” She sensed rather than heard his words surround her, but there was no accompanying vibration in his chest. “Or I would have feared your constant lecturing in matters of the heart might have been lost on me after all – possibly due to my lack of the said organ.” 

She actually giggled now, but did not raise her head.

“Let me see if I can take this social and emotional experiment even a step further. Stop me, whenever I should err.”

Reluctantly, Lohse let go of the embrace, when Fane loosened his grip. But the Undead only shifted the firm hold of his hands from her waist to her shoulders, turned her around and started leading her towards the stair into the Lady Vengeance’ vast hold. Suddenly remembering how their conversation had started, she stiffened involuntarily.

“Fane, no… I mean, what are you planning?”

He chuckled behind her. This was getting weird. Fane did not chuckle. He was too grave and usually far too sarcastic for such a display of genuine mirth. The chuckling continued though, and he kept steering her into his intended direction.

“I was thinking of acquiring a bottle of rum, or two, and get you drunk. If I recall correctly from the seafarer stories you feel compelled to share with me whenever we are on board a ship, such vessels always hold an ample supply of rum. I might join you in drinking, though I do not know to what effect. Relieved?”

Yes, she was and she gave up her resistance.

“Also, I have in mind something I have not done since before my demise and thus for an eternity,” he added, instantly re-instating her tension. Uh-oh.


	19. Intemperance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Hall of Echoes
> 
> Part 2 of ?  
> Part 1: Depression (Chapter 18)

Slit pupils were trained on her over the brim of a well-filled cup of amber liquid. Compared to her own drink, Fane’s also had a slightly greenish hue. The Claw of Zaikh lay on the table next to him. Just as the cups, it was being well-used tonight. It appeared, the drugging effect of the alcohol was not enough wholesome poisoning for Fane’s undead body. Lohse fretted a bit under the steady gaze. She was so used to Fane’s usual lack of eyeballs, that she found this very vivid scrutiny discomforting. His nostrils flared in mock irritation.

“Do you not know or do you not want to tell the reason why that guest of yours decided to abstain from our lovely little tête-à-tête with three of the seven gods?” He stopped, thinking. The scaled forehead was difficult to crease – a realisation he commented with a vicious snarl. “Or were there four gods? Does Rhalic count twice?”

Lohse allowed herself to relish briefly in Fane’s uncharacteristic struggle for precision.

“How come you did not take note of that then?” she teased. “Got distracted?”

Lizard eyes shot her an angry glance.

“The greatest scholar may find taking notes in the middle of a battle an impossible feat.”

He drained his cup and refilled it quickly. Lohse marvelled at the sureness of his movement. Momentarily she found it an almost impossible feat to follow it with her eyes. Maybe the poison countered the alcohol? That would be unfair. She pouted at Fane and earned herself a set of raised eye ridges (In the absence of eyebrows that was apparently the lizard expression.). 

“You’re not as drunk as I am,” she explained.

“I am also not as alive as you are,” Fane countered. “And you are dodging my question.” The lizard looked at her sternly.

“You are supposed to make me feel better, remember? Stop being so – you!”

Truth be told, Fane had not been much of himself for the last hour or so. Or better, he had not been like the self Lohse knew. After her plea to not be left alone this night, he had shown her a side to him that had sometimes gleamed through the ivory walls of scholarly aloofness and spikes of deadly sarcasm, but had never been fully revealed. He had shown her the friend and the father, had been nothing but warm and understanding. The friend had found the rum and filled her cup and the father had retrieved his mask and entertained her by shifting shapes as once he had entertained his daughter.

“You know, the first mask I made, I made for her,” he explained now, uncannily reading her thoughts. Or maybe, he was just reminiscing a time much happier than the current. Without her taking notice of it, he had transitioned back to his normal self, so that the wistful tone of his voice did not show in a smile. A sudden rush of feeling made her reach out to him, knowing that since he shaped his voice magically to his purpose, he allowed her to hear his emotions. Only the table between them stopped her from a full hug, so after touching his hand in sympathy, she simply took his cup and filled it, just as he had hers.

“You miss them,” she stated the obvious, while adding the poison to his drink. Fane only nodded, not breaking the silence of his thoughts and Lohse waited. She would have liked her waiting to be patient, but it was not. Barely able to keep herself from squirming on her rough seat, her hold on her cup hardened from the restraint. Luckily, it was a sturdy thing made from tin and her tension only showed in the ripples across the golden content, while the cup itself held. Then, when she was just about to down the alcohol unhealthily fast for a lack of ideas what else to say or do, Fane took her back an eternity before the currently official recording of time. 

“I did not spend nearly enough time with them.” 

“Not many do!” Shaken from her musings on the effects of a third cup of rum, this was a very sorry attempt of consolation.

“Yes, but it being a common mistake does not qualify my misconduct.”

“Why did you fight with us?” Never known for her diplomacy but rather her frankness, even to Lohse’s own ears, this question sounded too blunt. “I mean, good for us, that you did. But don’t you want them back?” 

Fane surprised her with a chuckle. 

“What?” 

True, she had not been what one could call sensitive in her prying, but a chuckle? Her tongue darted over her lips in irritation, leaving them wet for only a moment before they turned dry and brittle. Her question did not stop his mirth, though. If anything it even loosened the tight reigns he usually held on his emotions further and his chuckle turned into a full laugh that lasted and lasted and lasted… until it turned bitter.

“Are just you and Ifan thus alike, or is it a human thing to ask such prying questions?” His laughter ended as suddenly as it had begun and the ensuing silence became as scrutinising as Fane’s lizard gaze. 

Lohse stared back, determined not to back down or being distracted again. This time she won the contest.

“After our encounter with the Eternal Aeteran, he asked me a question different only in wording not the intent.”   
Oblivious to his own gesture, Fane’s teeth started biting on a fleshless thumb. It made a soft clicking sound. Lohse took a while to realise he was nibbling on his fingernails. Luckily, he was too engrossed in his own thoughts to comment on her state of disbelief: The self-proclaimed greatest scholar of his kind had been subject to nervous habits. Eternals were human after all, it seemed.

“He said, that if he had wife and child in the clutches of the Void, he would do everything he could to save them. And I thought the same for a very long while: Why should I not be able to find a way to release my kin and my kind from the Void when I had been the cause for their banishment to it? I handed the key to my people’s demise to the Seven and I gave them reason to use it. I let the mad dogs loose on a hunt for the Source of the Veil.  
Every wickedness visited on my people, every evil that stalks this land – it was my fault.”

While speaking, Fane had grown completely still: an unmoving skeleton, as dead to the eye as it should be had nature been allowed to run its cause. His voice wavered through the ship’s hold and for once he made no gestural effort to link it to the remnants of his body. Caught in the middle of what felt like one of her own ghost stories coming to life, dread flooded Lohse’s body. The need to comfort and be comforted became overwhelming and she practically sprang from her seat, ran around the table, and wrapped her arms around Fane in the physical attempt to keep him with her, to root them both to reality – and to not let him leave her alone.   
A terribly long while she remained uncertain whether she had succeeded. Then the shoulders beneath her arms heaved in an unnecessary breath and cold digits crept over her wrist to her upper arm and squeezed.

“Thank you, Lohse, that means … something.”

She leaned over to retrieve her cup from the other side of the table and sat next to him. It seemed they both were in dire need of company and she decided to make hers as close a company as he would let her. 

“I will honour their memory and not sit here and mope. I will go on for them. For my family.  
My loved ones may be gone, the Seven may have been corrupt, but I remain. The last true Eternal must survive.”

“Others love you too, you know?”

His contours blurred once again and she was relieved to see a friendly man’s face smile at her in honest affection.

“Yes, I know!” He cheered her with his cup, only a hint of desolation still detectable in his brown eyes, before he dispelled it with more rum. The tin cups clinked together in mutual salute.

“Speaking of which,” Lohse decided for another turn in their conversation. “You think, they will finally get… well… to it?”

“You mean, whether our Chief and our Thief discuss matters of secrecy and leadership?”

Lohse’s laughter, this time free and unchecked, send the last ghosts between them in full flight and the air in the room grew warmer. When she laid her head on his shoulder, his arm sneaked around her waist. No longer did Lohse care about the nature of Ifan’s and Sebille’s union. There simply was no chance for it to be deeper, or truer, or more honest than the friendship this night created. 

“Yes I believe, they will…” Again Fane stopped himself mid-sentence and frowned. “Or, do? … are? I have little knowledge of the usual timespan of mortal coupling. Can you help me out?”

With cheeks as red as her hair, Lohse stuttered and giggled herself through an explanation that appeared to satisfy the scholar but left the Eternal rather unimpressed.

“So short? It took a day to conceive my daughter.”

Later, Lohse had no measurement of the time they had spend drinking, and talking, and giggling, nor a recollection of how they had made their way up to the ships deck. She could not say how they had found themselves seated beneath the mast, or when her head had sunk to his lap. But on a morning as dreary as the night it followed, she woke to the silent summons of the ship and when the clouds in her thoughts had somewhat lifted, she felt skeletal fingers combing through her hair and heard a disembodied voice hum lullabies from a time long forgotten.


End file.
